


A Different Kind of Falling

by saltyfeathers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, M/M, reverse!verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:57:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 101,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyfeathers/pseuds/saltyfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something is wrong with Castiel's name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m afraid of  
> a lot of things,  
> but mostly,  
> most sincerely,  
> I am afraid of  
> being completely  
> unraveled by you,  
> and you finding nothing  
> you want in here.  
> -L.M. Dorsey

Castiel has never been big on the whole God thing.

His parents go to church, but he doubts it’s for anything other than appearances. He had been dragged to mass every Sunday morning for years before he knew any better, and the only thing he ever took away from the experience was the knowledge of how to tie his shoelaces. As a kid, he thought it had been god’s hand guiding him in how to tie them. Of course, the fact that he had been learning how to do exactly that at school had nothing to do with that success. Nothing at all. Go god go, the lord is guiding his flock, etc. So much for separation of state and church.

In all seventeen years of his living, god’s one (possible) gift to Castiel has been the gift of tying a reasonably good knot. Castiel would have rather gone for unlimited endurance, or the power of invisibility, sure, but he supposed the ability to chase the bunny around the tree and down the hole was as good as anything.

No, he wouldn’t call himself an atheist. Not exactly. He just wasn’t a fan of the big kahuna. And he figured the big kahuna wasn’t a fan of him. (Unless god was a kinky son of a bitch and just really into knots).

To Castiel, god is the equivalent of his peers at school- too wrapped up in their own lives to even consider what was going on in his. And hey, he can respect that. It’s not like he cares about what’s going on in their lives. Mutually assured avoidance. He can dig it. Sure, the majority of kids he goes to school with are kind of ginormous dicks, but that doesn’t technically have to factor into the “god as a peer” viewpoint. It’s not like he’s a saint by any stretch either.

He’s currently sitting in his history class, debating on whether or not to listen to his teacher talk about topics that could actually be considered interesting. Like most days, he settles on an eloquent, “no fucking thank you” and instead draws swirls on random scraps of paper with his pen, detached cap stuck between his teeth like he’s some sort of artist or something. (He most certainly is not an artist of any kind).

In fact, he’s not much of anything.

He is the stoner who makes no philosophical contributions, the nerd who doesn’t score all aces, the athlete who never scores a goal, the sculptor without a model. He is the Golden Middle. He supposes that’s an accomplishment in its own right. For there to be an average, there has to be outliers, and many people will be around the center, but how many fall through that crack in the middle? How many slip through the space where the extremes meet?

He guesses very few. Perhaps his dreams of invisibility have already been realized.

With all that said, if you were to stop a random student in the hallway at his school and speak his name, it’s most likely they would know of him.

“That kid with the freaky blue eyes?”

“What kind of a name is Castiel, anyways?”

“No, seriously, you could replace his eyes with dinner plates and no one would know the difference.”

It’s hard to go through life unnoticed with a name like Castiel. As a kid, the Sunday school teachers loved him. _Named after an angel, how lovely,_ they would coo. On days when he’s not ready to purge his brain of any and all memories of days worshipping the probably absent almighty, he remembers trying to defend his name. No one really made fun of him, per se. But the name didn’t fit properly in their mouths. He wasn’t sure if it started way back in the throat, or if something twisted their lips at the last moment, but whenever someone said his name, it just refused to roll off their tongues correctly. As time went by, he just learned to accept it. Castiel, the boy with the square name in a circular mouth.

And so it is when Castiel’s looping whorls and designs are interrupted by a creeping, oppressive feeling of a classroom of eyes on him. He looks up from his doodle, hears some giggles and murmurs, and there’s his teacher, Mr. Singer, staring along with the rest of the class.

“Castiel,” He says, and Castiel can hear the twinge of his name, hear it bend out of shape just a little bit. At least Mr. Singer got it a little less twisted than most. Castiel quite liked the man, though no one would ever be able to tell. He had a poker face that could win him a hand against the devil himself.

“Yes?” More giggles, though Castiel’s confused, as he hasn’t said anything amusing. He can deadpan with the best of them, but he tends to reserve said humor for his own internally running commentary.

“Keep with the program, eh? History ain’t all stuffy old guys standing around talking about boring shit. There’s drama and backstabbing and sword fights and incest and betrayal and sex…” A wolf whistle comes from somewhere on the other side of the class, and Castiel idly wonders if Mr. Singer had ended his list with “incest” if the same whistle would have been heard.

“Yeah, hey, Mr. Singer, why haven’t we talked about the sex part of history yet?” A chorus of indignant “yeah’s!” is expelled by a generally male demographic.

“Look, iidgits, I said history wasn’t _all_ about boring guys standing around and talking. Besides, some of these men were truly great. Maybe if you listened more, you’d learn something about being a gentleman other than a lewd wolf whistle.” He sends a glare towards the offender, and the class titters. Castiel is forgotten and the lesson continues and concludes with about three more wolf whistles from various classmates.

And so Castiel’s life goes.

***

Castiel is part of the middle class. Good neighborhood, nice house, with enough soccer moms and middle management types to drown a fish, and picturesque suburbs ripped right from Edward Scissorhands. (This colorful suburbia doesn’t offer custom hair styling at the hands of a man with pointy fingers, however, which may be why Castiel has lived a life of the perpetually unruly bedhead.)

Luckily, it’s a crisp autumn afternoon somewhere around Canadian Thanksgiving, so Castiel isn’t assaulted by the creepy American Dream vibe his street gives off during the warmer months. If artificially green grass, a golden retriever, and two-point-five kids is enough for you, then Castiel isn’t going to stand in your way, but there’s really only so many good natured talks he can watch his neighbors have as they meet at the end of their driveways to pick up the morning newspaper, both in their bathrobes and slippers, before he feels the familiar itch under his skin, telling him that if he doesn’t get out of here soon, he’s either going to end up exactly like them, or jump off a cliff. He’s almost more afraid of the former.

It’s his prerogative as a teenager, he knows, to want to rebel, to prove that he’s an adult. He understands that everyone goes through it at some point in their lives, and whether he likes it or not, he’s a part of the rebellion. (Thankfully, he never went through the unfortunate affliction known as the goth phase- he wasn’t sure if his hindsight could stand the assault of pale makeup and ripped clothing.)

Castiel watches the sickly yellow school bus trundle away, spewing exhaust fumes and colorful fall leaves in its wake. He is somewhat struck by the pretty, delicate leaves being tossed around in the mini hurricane of oily gasses left behind, and analogies and phrases that have to do with juxtaposition and corruption of innocence floats around in his head idly.

A loud squawk of a crow breaks Castiel out of his _American Beauty_ moment, and he heads home, hands stuffed in the pocket of his black coat and breath puffing in front of him in little clouds.

The sky is a harsh grey today, oppressive, overbearing, and pressing in from all sides. It feels like Castiel is walking around in a room with an extremely low ceiling.  And yet… with a sky like this, bumpy with clouds of differing shades of grey and shadow, Castiel can judge distance in a way a flat blue sky could never dream of. He can see, and know how far he’s seeing. He can imagine, and see how far his ideas fly.

Castiel wonders why he enjoys the idea of juxtaposition so very much, and wonders why he’s been thinking of it today. Maybe he heard the word earlier in the day, and just can’t get it out of his head. Maybe he read it somewhere? Heard it in a passive way? Whatever the case, Castiel decides, on the spot, halfway between his home and the bus stop, under a gray sky that is both so huge and so tiny, that he enjoys contradictions.

When he enters his house, it is empty. It’s not a surprise. Castiel’s parents both have jobs- luckily, his mother doesn’t subscribe to the idea that the American Dream includes a stay at home wife who has a drink and dinner waiting the moment her husband gets home. Not only has that decision strengthened the absurdity of gender roles in Castiel’s mind, but it allows him some alone time. He’s alone at school all the time, of course, but that doesn’t change the fact that his high school is a place that’s too small to hold its ever-expanding population, and no matter how alone one feels, there will always be enough shoves, jostles, and  awkward accidental ass touches to pull you back from that precipice of true isolation. 

He dumps his backpack unceremoniously at the door by the coatrack, knowing he won’t do any homework tonight. He very rarely does homework. It’s one of the reasons he’s pulling about a seventy percent average right now, but he really can’t be bothered. He reasons that some kids get by on much less, so he’s content to fail the tests and participation points, but do well enough on the in-class stuff that everything seems to balance out in the end.

Castiel makes his way through the house, beelining for the back door and the sanctuary that lies beyond it.

Castiel enjoys his backyard. It’s highly fenced, meaning privacy. The fence came with the house when they bought it, Castiel knows, because there was no way his parents would willingly put up such walls to their welcoming new neighbors. The plant life, which would grow at an alarming rate in the spring and summer, seems frozen in some sort of stasis for the cold months. The ivy creeping up at the corner of the wooden fence is dead and brown, but Castiel knows it will revive once the frosts have disappeared for another year. Neither of his parents had much of a green thumb, meaning that the garden was completely out of control, extra weeds and bush popping up everywhere. If anyone outside of their family ever saw it, Castiel had a feeling the police would be notified and they would be charged with something like disrupting the peace. He just hoped the plant life wouldn’t become sentient.

As much as he hates himself for it, especially for the fact that he’s doing this in the garden, Castiel pulls out his phone with a sigh, and opens his Facebook newsfeed- a product of his generation, indeed. He scrolls apathetically through the feed, knowing that he really doesn’t care either way about who has “haterz” or what popular song everyone is quoting this week, but he doesn’t stop. Eventually, after he’s gotten to the status updates from last night, he slips his phone back into his pocket. If he were tortured for a million years, he would never be able to explain why he uses any sort of social networking sites. He understands the lure of the internet, for sure, but the “social” and “networking” aspects seem to have eluded him completely. He heaves another heavy sigh, and stares at the ivy in the corner of the yard, deciding that he’s done with this particular train of thought for the day.

After about three minutes of Castiel staring at the dead ivy, something happens. Something very strange happens.

He blinks, there is a soft noise, and a figure is standing in his backyard. Though, “standing” may not be the proper definition. It appears that the thing had gotten some sort of running start, and then sudden propulsion forward. Castiel pictures someone leaning against a door, only to have someone else yank it open from the other side. The figure’s arms are pin wheeling, and it (he? It looks like a he) is skidding forward in a very apt depiction of a cartoon character before falling flat on his face in the soil of one of the many mini gardens scattered around the yard.

Castiel doesn’t startle easily, but he knows enough to be wary of strangers who suddenly appear in his yard and faceplant in some almost frozen soil. Castiel makes his way- very slowly and cautiously- towards the heaped figure (it’s definitely a he), who hasn’t moved since his less than graceful landing.

“Excuse me,” Castiel says faintly, and the guy doesn’t move.

Castiel clears his throat, going for a little more intimidation. He can be a bad cop if he has to.

“Excuse me.” No answer.

Okay, no, he wasn’t very good at being the bad cop.

 “Look,” Castiel says to the motionless lump, “Not that I want to cramp your style or anything, but you appear to be snuffling my plants half to death. I mean, it’s autumn, so they’re already dead, but that’s not really the point here. Speaking of, I hope you aren’t dead. That would prove troublesome, and perhaps even bothersome.”

Castiel takes another careful step closer, trying to observe what he sees and have it make some sort of sense in his head. The guy is wearing a dark brown leather jacket, with the tail of a blue plaid shirt sticking out from beneath it, along with some worn-looking jeans and workman’s boots. There is a black cord around his neck, Castiel noticed, but the guy must have whatever charm it’s attached to stuck under him somewhere.

“Do you enjoy flowers?” Castiel continues on his little tangent, realizing that he’s basically spewing his mental running commentary to this seemingly comatose stranger lying face down in his backyard. “I suppose if you do, lying in that position wouldn’t be too bad, though I suspect you’re rather cold, and possibly injured based on your rather mundane entrance. Well, it wasn’t all mundane. You appearing out of thin air was quite surprising and -if you don’t end up being a serial killer- entertaining. I apologize for my hesitancy in approaching you, but as a child I was inundated with the notion of stranger danger. You seem to be quite large in stature, and I haven’t assessed your risk level yet, so I hope you don’t take offense at the fact that I’m rather far away from you. For all I know, you could be pretending to be hurt or knocked out, and then when I come near you-“

“Shut up.”

Castiel pauses mid-sentence at the interruption. Some people would continue speaking over that command, he knows, but something in the voice makes him stop. He isn’t sure what it is.

“Pardon me?” Castiel inquires politely, even though he heard perfectly well the first time.

The guy on the ground groans, and starts to stir.

“Shut.” He’s flexing his arms and legs, checking for damage. He pushes himself off the ground and dusts himself off with as much dignity as he can scrape out of the flowers at his feet. His eyes finally meet Castiel’s. “Up.”

Castiel applies his poker face, assuming this is the moment he will either be murdered before he hears a story so bizarre he can barely comprehend it, or hear a story so bizarre he can barely comprehend it, and then be murdered. Castiel is certain that he would enjoy a story more than getting murdered. In fact, he’s quite enamoured with the idea of life.

He stares at the person standing in front of him. If Castiel had to guess an age, he would assume it was one similar to his own. The boy has short brown hair, and Castiel can see the charm on the black cord now that the boy is facing him. It’s golden, and looks like some sort of tribal mask. It has horns. The boy sees Castiel staring at it, and his mouth twitches. Castiel brings his eyes back to the boy’s face, and there is a spattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, and it reminds Castiel of those art projects kids do when they dip toothbrushes into paint and flick it to achieve some sort of splatter effect on the paper. Somewhere at the back of his mind he wonders if the boy spends a lot of time in the sun, or if he was born with the freckles.

This boy has very bright eyes.

They have been staring at each other for a couple of minutes, and the boy with the bright eyes suddenly seems to realize this. He coughs and scrubs his face with his right hand. Castiel continues to stare, because this boy just crash landed in his garden, so they go by his rules, and also, more importantly, Castiel enjoys staring at the boy.

The boy doesn’t seem to enjoy staring back as much, however.

“You talk a lot.” He informs Castiel.

“It surprised me as well.” Castiel agrees.

The boy seems taken aback at that answer, and his eyes narrow slightly. Castiel almost feels like he can see the blinds close halfway behind the boy’s eyes.

“So… I had kind of a rough landing.” The boy informs him.

“Yes. I was there.”

The boy laughs awkwardly and seems unsure how to respond again. His gaze turns quizzical as he takes Castiel in, black coat, grey jeans, and sensible shoes.

“I’m Dean.”  Dean extends a hand for Castiel to shake.

“Hello, Dean. I am Castiel.” Castiel extends his own hand, and he sees something spark in Dean’s eyes, and is surprised at how firm Dean’s grip is.

“What an interesting name.” Dean smiles, all white teeth and crinkles around the eyes, gripping Castiel’s hand even more firmly for a moment before releasing it. Castiel flexes his hand and Dean does that thing where he quirks up a corner of his mouth. “Now where on _earth_ could that name have come from?”

“I was named after an angel.” Castiel supplies, and is barely even surprised that Dean _doesn’t_ seem surprised.

“I’m sure there’s more to the story than that,” Dean prompts, flashing another megawatt smile at Castiel. Castiel isn’t sure how that smile makes him feel, so he elects to ignore it.

“My parents go to church every week.”

Castiel understands- has understood, from the moment Dean stood up and brushed himself off- that Dean is extremely confident. Even though he was flummoxed by Castiel’s initial responses, he seems at ease enough. Castiel wonders how much of it is genuine.

Dean considers him for a second, and proceeds to sit back on the ground. He doesn’t say anything, so it is up to Castiel to ask.

“Why are you sitting on the ground again?”

“You were a lot more talkative when I was down here. I figure I’ll get more out of you by staring up at you. I dunno if it’s a power trip thing or what, but I’m cool with it.” Dean proceeds to lean back on his elbows and stare up at Castiel, slight smirk twisting his mouth.

“You seem to be privy to my private commentary for some reason.” Castiel says before he can stop himself. “However, as soon as you stood up and started speaking to me, I realized what I was doing and attempted to pull back. I seem to be doing a rather miserable job, however, considering this is basically word for word what my inner commentary is saying right now. And now. And now. And-” Finally, he makes himself stop talking, and has to work this time to pull his poker face together.

Dean seems rather amused by Castiel’s mini confession, and his smirk becomes more pronounced.

“Tell me about your name, _Castiel_.” Dean says, and at that moment, a realization hits Castiel upside his head so hard he almost stumbles even though there was no physical stimulus.

Dean says his name properly.

It shouldn’t be a big thing, but it is. So big. Grand Canyon big. Milky Way-the galaxy, not the chocolate bar- big. Universe defying. Castiel envisions parades with floats and marching bands and baton twirlers, t-shirt guns and people cheering and confetti raining from the sky. Trumpets blare, birds take flight, fireworks crackle and pop in the inky sky, and couples are kissing and politicians are kissing babies with genuine smiles on their faces and brothers and sisters peck each other’s cheeks and there is so, so much kissing and contentment that it becomes a blanket, wrapping itself around Castiel permanently. Now that he’s found someone who can say his name, someone who knows what it means to hold the name _Castiel_ in their mouth, change it from something biblical to something personal, now…

It’s big. Something has fundamentally shifted. Something that had always been a constant in Castiel’s little world has disappeared, leaving it open and greedy for notions Castiel has never even considered- or _wanted_ \- in his life. He wonders if there was an earthquake. That could be it. There is no way he is suddenly seeing the world in a different way and fighting off the urge do dance a jig just because a stranger and possible serial killer knows how to pronounce a holy name.

And yet.

Dean is staring at him, and Castiel wonders what kind of emotions have played across his face during his little personal epiphany. What did Dean see?

“Castiel,” He prods gently, now seeming a little concerned, “You okay?”

At the mention of his name again, Castiel just barely manages to suppress a shiver. If he were less in shock right now, he would probably be giving himself the mental chastising of a lifetime, because _what the hell_? _Bigger fish to fry here, Castiel._

“Yes. I am fine. Not that I don’t enjoy discussing the decision making process for baby names with a complete stranger who just popped into my backyard and may still possibly kill me, but maybe we have more important matters to speak about?”

“I dunno, Castiel. You seem rather fond of tangents. Humor me, why don’t you?” Dean is smiling again, but this time it’s gentle and warm, and Castiel suddenly has the feeling that not many people are privy to this secret side of this cocky and confident boy.

“I am. But I am much fonder of life. Tremendously fond of life. Exceptionally fond of life. Perhaps if you prove that you won’t kill me and do something unsavory with my innards, I will tell you about my name.”

Dean blinks.

“How am I supposed to prove it to you?”

Castiel shrugs.

“I don’t have much experience with serial killers, so I’m not certain.”

“But then I could just trick you anyways?” Dean’s voice inflects upwards at the end of his statement, but it remains that. A statement. A challenge?

Castiel frowns, brows creasing. Processing.

 “Do you like to pull the heads off dolls? And please answer honestly.”

“No,” says Dean seriously.

Castiel hesitates.

“Was that a ‘no, I don’t pull heads off dolls’, or a ‘no, I won’t answer honestly’?”

“First one.” Dean reassures him with yet another grin.

“Very well… how is your relationship with your mother?”

Apparently it was the wrong thing to say. Dean looks away, determinedly looking anywhere but at Castiel.

Castiel notes that this could be considered a suspicious answer, but decides to ignore his better judgement for a moment.

“I look at the ivy,” He says, pointing, and Dean’s usually bright eyes, now cloudy with an emotion Castiel can’t pinpoint, suddenly focus on him again, though Castiel doubts Dean is actually seeing him.

“What?”

“To calm down. To center myself. I look at the ivy in the corner of the yard. It helps sometimes.”

Dean’s eyebrows raise, but he shoots a glance towards where Castiel is pointing.

“Uh, okay, sure,” He says uncertainly, and focuses his glare more intently on the dead, brown, plant, currently stalled in its mad break for the top of the fence and then freedom. Castiel suddenly worries about sentience again. Maybe he should stop anthropomorphizing things.

“You need to relax.” Castiel informs Dean softly. He wants to step closer, to try and share the feeling he has when relaxing this way through physical proximity, but he refrains. Dean doesn’t take his eyes off the corner of the garden, but he cants his head in a way that says, _I’m listening_.

“You’re not actually supposed to be looking at the ivy.” Castiel continues, making his voice as unthreatening and soft around the edges as possible. “Let the edges blur. Allow the colors to run together.” He takes a step towards Dean without even realizing. “It won’t move while you’re looking at it. It’s stationary in a world that is constantly moving.” He breathes out a quiet laugh, and he sees Dean’s shoulders loosen just a little. “Though I suppose the ivy grows slowly, you wouldn’t even realize it until one day you walk outside and there it is, three feet tall, when yesterday you could have sworn it was still just a foot. These things creep up on us. We get the picture in our head of what we think these things look like, but then all of a sudden, there it is, something different. Somewhere along the line, it crept under our skin, that little strand of ivy, and it planted a seed. A seed that grows into… something. Something important. Something big.”

Castiel isn’t even sure what he’s saying anymore, but Dean seems to be enthralled. The words seem to have relaxed him anyways, whereas Castiel suddenly feels strangely warm and agitated for such a cold day. He feels a flush creeping up his neck, and the realization only makes it spread faster. His breathing is rather labored, and he does his best to steady the rhythm.

Dean blinks blearily and turns his head towards Castiel.

“Wow. That worked. You’ve got some voice, man.”

“Thank you.” Castiel manages to grit out in his sudden state of discomfort.

“No, thank _you_.” Dean corrects him, easing into a lazy smile. “So did I pass this test? Am I a serial killer or not?”

“You seem just as moved by certain events in your past as most humans are, and responded to it in a reasonably acceptable way. I suppose I can unsafely assume that my innards will remain in me for now.”

Dean laughs loudly at that, producing little clouds with each expulsion of air. Castiel isn’t sure what’s funny about that, either.

“Castiel.” Dean says again, rolling his tongue around the name. “Castiel.” He chuckles. “Man, what a name.”

Castiel nods. He can’t find it in him to return the compliment, considering Dean is a rather common name, but he doesn’t miss the jolt of pleasure that hits him in various ways every time Dean says his name.

“Y’know,” Dean says after a pause, “I think I can wait on the origin story.”

Castiel feels the mild disbelief spread over his face as Dean continues, “I kind of like it here, and if I got your story, I’d have no reason to come visit again, would I?”

There it is again. The swagger and confidence. Castiel can’t decide if he’s impressed by this presumptuousness or not. Maybe he doesn’t have to decide just yet.

“I have to go.” Dean announces, canting his head slightly, so that one ear is pointed at the sky, and the other directly at the ground. He kind of looks like an owl.

There’s a feeling in Castiel’s belly. It’s churning and roiling, and it stabs him somewhere behind his ribs. He’s not sure what it is.

“Goodbye, Dean.” Castiel says, and a small voice in the back of his head informs him that these aren’t the words he wants to say.

The corners of Dean’s mouth tighten, and Castiel can almost swear he sees a flicker of disappointment in his eyes, though it passes too quickly for him to be sure.

Maybe he really was seeing things, because Dean’s casual, “See ya later,” followed by his disappearing right in front of Castiel’s eyes leaves no bitterness in its wake.

Castiel sighs and stares at the spot where Dean was just standing a moment ago. The bright, chemically superior grass has nothing on the green of Dean’s eyes.

***

Seeing as he has not been brutally murdered, Castiel feels like things could have gone worse. It’s been a few hours since Dean has disappeared into the ether, and Castiel is laying on his bed, trying to will his sluggish thoughts into something halfway coherent. He’s not sure if he should be ready to accept the fact that people can just pop into existence in random back gardens. Sure, he understands that the universe is vast and complicated, and that amazing things probably happen every day.

No one ever said one of those amazing things would happen to _him_ , though. Besides, who said it was amazing? It could be something horrible. Something world shattering and nightmare inducing. It could be the end of time, or the apocalypse. It’s not like he has much to go on.

Castiel is vaguely irritated that he never thought to press the matter with Dean. The guy literally appears out of nowhere, and Castiel doesn’t even bother to ask _what’s up with that?_ To be fair, it had been pretty surreal, and when things get weird, Castiel tends to get intense and verbose. Dean had said he would come back, so maybe he’ll get the chance to figure out what the hell is going on. Until that time comes, however, Castiel is firmly stuck on the ground with no idea what to do next.

So he does nothing.

“Nothing”, as it always has been, is something he does well. Castiel’s parents go out for dinner, to celebrate some anniversary or another, so he’s been ghosting around the house, flicking lights on and off, flipping through TV channels, and opening and closing the fridge with alarming frequency and growing annoyance.

Feeling like one of those protagonists of shitty teen supernatural dramas, Castiel pulls up Google, fully prepared to go into serious research mode. He sits in front of his laptop, fingers poised over the keys, realizing he has no idea what to type in. All those characters from the shows have concrete physical traits to go on. What does he have? A guy named Dean who has green eyes and a leather jacket. How does one even go about researching spontaneous appearance?

Castiel Googles “spontaneous appearance”.  Stares at the first of a million pages. Sighs and shuts his laptop.

“You’re an asshole, Dean.” Castiel informs the empty room.

When the room fails to respond in a satisfactory way (Dean popping up, giving reasoning behind the weirdest day Castiel’s ever had to experience, and then showing him how to do said teleporting) Castiel shakes his head and goes downstairs to watch another infomercial and open the fridge again.

***

Castiel is in history the next day, once again having elected to ignore Mr. Singer. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he feels kind of bad for it. Mr. Singer is a good teacher, if tetchy. He understands the importance of history, which many people fail to grasp. Castiel gives the man props, but that doesn’t necessarily means he’ll give him his attention. Can’t win them all.

Castiel is directing his brooding out the window, while some small part of his brain that hasn’t yet given up on everything academic related is telling him that listening may possibly be of use to him today.

He ignores that voice. It’s been getting incrementally smaller lately, which makes it much easier to shut out.

It’s another grey day outside, and from this vantage point, Castiel can see the soccer field behind the school. There’s been a strange charge in the air today, a pressure that suggests thunder later. All sports cancelled, then. Castiel will have to remember to be disappointed about that later.

He’s staring into the middle distance pensively when a murder of crows suddenly shoots out of the trees behind the sports field, screaming and cawing their displeasure at something Castiel can’t see.

But then he does. Because in a blink, there’s someone out there on the field who wasn’t there a moment ago. Castiel only knows of one person who can do that.

His brain fires into action so quickly he barely manages to stay in his seat. His arm almost flies out of its socket as he thrusts his hand in the air, waving it a bit to get Mr. Singer’s attention. Once he does, and Mr. Singer has done the obligatory eyebrow raise, (“Uh, yes, Castiel? You have a question?”) and the inevitable fall of said eyebrows when Castiel just asks to use the washroom, Castiel is out of the classroom faster than he can believe, and practically flying down the hall to get out the basement doors and directly onto the sidelines of the field. For a second, he remembers that if Mr. Singer so much as glanced out the window, he’d see the student who’s currently supposed to be taking a piss in the boy’s bathroom. But Castiel really _really_ doesn’t care, and strides out onto the field, his eyes roving back and forth for the leather jacket from yesterday.

The field is empty.

“Not that I expect an explanation or anything, Dean, but you did just kind of pop into my life yesterday in a manner that up until our little meeting, I would have thought was completely impossible. Of course, I don’t understand bending time and space or quantum mechanics like your giant MENSA brain seems to, but I know enough to understand that vanishing acts suck when you’re not the one who’s vanishing. Y’know, it’s not like my world view changed yesterday or anything. Nope, just met a guy who dropped into my backyard via special teleportation, or from the future, or from another planet or something, nothing existential-crisis inducing about that at all.”

“Are you always so passive aggressive when you’re angry?” A familiar voice asks from behind him.

Castiel whips around so fast he thinks his neck might snap.

“I didn’t think you were actually here,” He says by way of greeting. No need to explain that Dean and his fancy entrances and exits were all Castiel has been thinking about since yesterday- even though his little soliloquy a moment ago probably told Dean enough.

Dean raises his eyebrows and for a moment Castiel is reminded uncomfortably of Mr. Singer. “So… you were just saying all that to empty air?” He asks slowly.

“I suppose, yes.” He admits stiffly after an awkward pause.

Dean whistles and stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets. “Man, I really was right about the passive aggressive thing.”

Castiel swallows. Sure, he’d had all this planned out in his head. How he would wheedle Dean for answers until he was completely satisfied that his whole life hadn’t just turned upside down and inside out, but standing here, with the other boy right in front of him, Castiel’s tongue refuses to form the right words.

“What are you doing here?” He asks. “You don’t go to this school, do you?”

Dean snorts derisively, rolling his shoulders and bending his head to one side, then the other. “No.” Castiel is somewhat transfixed by the soft sounds of the leather creasing as Dean continues to roll his shoulders backwards a couple of times, and then switch directions.

“Another rough landing?” Castiel inquires pointedly.

Dean shrugs and surreptitiously brushes some grass and dirt off a sleeve.

“It’s sort of difficult to aim.”

Castiel chews on this information for a moment, wondering how to process it. Deciding to ignore it, he asks the next best question.

“Why were you aiming for here?”

Dean shoots him a cheeky grin.

“I was actually aiming for the hallway outside your classroom. I was gonna spring you for a while.”

Castiel crosses his arms, a thought suddenly occurring to him.

“Am I being stalked?” He asks bluntly. His face turns thoughtful as he continues to talk, “I’ve never had a stalker. Are you a peeping tom type or attack me in the alley type? Do you collect the hair from my brush and make it into weird sculptures? Is there a shrine dedicated to me in your closet?”

Dean puts out both hands in a placating gesture and takes a step back. “Whoa there, cowboy. I’ve seen you twice, okay? Let’s put stalking on the backburner for now. At least let me buy you a drink first.” Dean thrusts his hands out towards Castiel, palms up, as if showing him he’s safe. He lets his hands fall by his sides and reclaims the step he took backwards a moment ago. Then he cocks his head, as if something just occurred to him. “You have a brush?”

Castiel narrows his eyes slightly, not sure where this is going.

“Yes.”

Dean gives him a once over and chuckles.

“Okay.”

Castiel feels a ripple of annoyance flow through him.

“Is there a problem with that?” He asks through slightly gritted teeth. Anger isn’t really his thing. As Dean had stated earlier, he always enjoyed the deadpan of passive aggressiveness much more. However, Dean doesn’t seem interested in drawing out Castiel’s usual responses. He seems determined to get under Castiel’s skin and pull out crap Castiel hasn’t bothered with in years. Great.

Dean purses his lips and looks Castiel over again as if it should be obvious. He shrugs.

“It’s not a problem, really. I’m just saying, you either never use the brush or you spend a hell of a lot of time getting your hair that tousled. Probably takes copious amounts of gel, too.” And without warning, Dean reaches out and runs a hand through Castiel’s hair as if to prove his theory.

Castiel barely has time to register what just happened before Dean withdraws his hand, seemingly satisfied, considering the smirk on his face.

“No gel. So the brush is just for show, I guess.”

Castiel is having a hard time thinking through the goosebumps that have just appeared all over his bare arms. He hopes Dean attributes them to the weather. He tries not to think about the sensitive nerve endings in his scalp as they were gently affected by Dean’s fingers carding through the hair attached to them.    

“It adds a certain _je ne sais quoi_ to the décor.” Castiel agrees solemnly.

It becomes awkward for a few moments, Castiel not sure what to say next, and not meeting Dean’s eyes. Castiel shuffles from foot to foot. He hears Dean roll his shoulders again. Something pops.

“You said you were going to ‘spring me’.” Castiel says. “Why?”

Dean shrugs.

“I was bored. I felt like it. I didn’t have anything better to do.”

“I can’t imagine what your life was like before my scintillating presence spiced things up for you.” Castiel quips, starting to rub his arms, because now the goosebumps really are from the chill outside.

Dean rolls his eyes and stares up at the clouds overhead, which have turned a much angrier grey during their conversation.

“Looks fun,” He observes neutrally.

Castiel shrugs.

“It’s just rain,”

“Says the one who looks like he’s about to bite a hole in his tongue from shivering so hard,” Dean snickers.

So he did notice them.

“I- oh.” Castiel feels the tremors now that Dean has mentioned them. He didn’t realize how cold he was.

“You should probably go back inside.” Dean informs him.

“I sh-should.” Castiel stutters around his teeth clacking, and starts to walk away. It takes him a second to realize Dean is following him.

“Uh,” Castiel says in some sort of protest.

“Oh. Yeah.” Dean says, like he’s just remembered something. “I didn’t tell you, but I may need your help to find my locker.”

Castiel stops to look at him.

“B-but you said you weren’t a st-student here.”

“I’m not.” Dean assures him. “Yet. Today is my first day.”

Castiel is fairly sure he resembles a goldfish at the moment, mouth opening and then closing, as he isn’t sure what he wants to say. Too many thoughts all rushing to get out of his brain at once, and they all seem to clog up right at his mouth, like trying to shake money out of a single-slotted piggy bank.

Dean starts to walk again, and tosses Castiel a look over his shoulder.

“Let’s go. I don’t want my first friend at my new school to have become a Popsicle before I can even get to my first class. Gotta keep a good reputation.”

Even though it feels freezing cold out, Castiel can feel the pressure from the oncoming storm sitting heavily above him, like a frog on a particularly rotting log.

He rolls his eyes and follows Dean into the school.

***

Dean isn’t nervous. He isn’t particularly lost. He isn’t even that discombobulated. He navigates the school with an ease that surprises Castiel, though the fact that Dean seems to be able to disappear in the blink of an eye should probably means that he shouldn’t be as surprised as he is.

What is surprising, however, is how close Dean sticks by him. He’s not needy by any stretch, but he’s there by Castiel’s side for his whole first day.

Castiel had skipped out on history, only to come back at the break between morning classes to grab his backpack and coat. Mr. Singer had sent him a look of reproach, but said nothing. Castiel, feeling like he owed the man some sort of explanation, had tried to tell him about running into an old friend who turned out to be a new student, and that he was helping him settle in. It was true, in the loosest of terms.

“What’s the new kid’s name?” Mr. Singer asks after Castiel’s half-lie.

“Dean.”

“Dean what?”

“What?”

“Dean. What? What’s his surname?”

“Uh-“

“Winchester,” Comes Dean’s voice from the doorway. He was leaning against the wooden framing like he belonged there, cool as a cucumber. “I’m Dean Winchester.”

Mr. Singer looks up at their new arrival.

“Winchester. Like the rifle.”

“That’s the one. Though I like to say that the rifle was named after our family, not the other way around.”

“Oh yeah? What makes you say that?”

Dean shrugs, a gleam in his eye.

Castiel can tell that Mr. Singer likes Dean already, and for some reason, that makes him feel like smiling.

“Alright, Castiel, I’ll deal with the absence for this period, but don’t pull crap like that again, got it? And remember, you owe me that paper on the fourth Crusade that was due last week. Get on it.”

He shakes Dean’s hand, gives Castiel a nod, and tells them to get the hell out of his classroom and not to be late for their next classes, _iidjits._

Castiel really does smile, but this time it’s at the plural.

***

Dean is in his English class, but other than that, their schedules are very different. Castiel has English, history, chemistry, creative writing, philosophy, and theology. Dean, aside from English, found himself in auto shop, geography, biology, (“Dissecting stuff? Count me in.”) woodshop, and, to Castiel’s surprise, home economics.

Castiel looks over Dean’s schedule with mirth in his eyes. The two of them are sitting outside, breath puffing little clouds in the crisp October air. The pressure from the incoming storm is still there, but it’s receded somewhat. It feels like it’s holding its breath.

An unwelcome thought suddenly fixes itself in his mind. He recalls the game he used to play as a kid, that every time he would pass by a graveyard he would have to hold his breath until they came across a red light. One time he held his breath so long he passed out for a couple seconds.

“Castiel.” Dean’s voice brings him out of his much too ominous thoughts. He was probably looking into the middle distance again as well. Awesome. He’s turning into the main character on a soap opera.

“Yes. Hello.”

Dean hits his schedule with the back of his hand to bring Castiel’s attention to it. “So we’ve got English together.”

“Yes.”

“Are you good at English? Gonna let me side-eye your tests?” Dean waggles his eyebrows, and Castiel is fairly sure Dean is just trying to get a rise out of him.

“I don’t particularly apply myself in English- or any classes, for that matter. I highly recommend you either find someone better to cheat off, or do the work on your own.”

Dean sighs melodramatically, and his breath dissipates in the air.

“So I made friends with the local loner, and he isn’t even a geek I can copy off. I must be doing something wrong. My charm is broken.”

Castiel stares at him. He’s not offended. Dean is speaking the truth. Dean, however, seems to realize what he’s said a second after he’s said it and starts to back pedal.

“Castiel, geeze man, I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I don’t know why I said that. Really, I’m-“

Castiel holds out a hand to silence his companion.

“Relax, Dean. Think of the ivy.” Dean shuts his mouth at that, and Castiel continues. “I have no friends.” – _Except maybe you?-_ “and I don’t get grades to write home about. You were merely stating the truth.”

“Yeah, well, you still don’t say crap like that. Not to friends.”

Castiel feels something click into place somewhere behind his ribcage. Dean called him a friend again.

“I’m glad we can be… friends, Dean.” Castiel rolls the word around in his mouth, chews on it, and decides he likes the feel of it.

Looks like they both have a way with words.

Sort of.

***

They spend the rest of lunch having intermittent conversations about various things, and all the space in between those talks are filled with a silence that Castiel isn’t used to. He’s used to silence on his own, sure, but sharing silence with someone else is a new experience. He wonders how much the silence says compared to the words they exchange, or if it even says anything at all.

Dean is laid out on an old wooden picnic table, eyes closed, bathing in the grey light of the afternoon. Castiel is sitting on the bench of the table by Dean’s feet. He looks peaceful.

So of course, Castiel has to go and ruin it.

“Where are you from?” He asks, watching Dean’s breathing suddenly quicken. His eyes flutter open and he immediately puts an arm over his face, blocking out the bright light. He groans as he sits up.

“I’m from a lot of places.” He says neutrally.

“Places like…?” Castiel prompts.

“I’ve been around.” Dean says like that clarifies things.

Castiel nods.

“That was a very sufficient answer. Thank you for being so concise and accommodating.”

Dean shuffles to the end of the table, and his legs are dangling, toes just brushing the grass below.

“Does it really matter? “

“It’s the first thing your new peers will ask you.” Castiel replies, avoiding the question.

 Dean shrugs.

“Okay then. I’m from Lawrence, Kansas.”

Castiel considers not bothering to ask if it’s the truth, but decides against it.

“Is that true?”

Dean rubs his eyes with his sleeve.

“Sure.”

Castiel bites his tongue. It’s not his place to question, not really. Not yet. He ignores the voice in his head that tells him to keep pushing, and informs Dean that they should probably go inside so they can get to class on time. As if on cue, the bell rings, signalling the end of lunch.

***

Castiel walks out of chemistry at the end of the day, head buzzing slightly with the Bunsen burners having been on for the majority of the period. He almost walks right by a smirking Dean, looking for all the world like he owns the place.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel grates out, the smell of gas still lingering around him. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Fun times with gas?” Dean asks as they begin to walk towards Castiel’s locker, obviously smelling the stench from the classroom.  “Hope you got to blow something up.”

Castiel shakes his head. “We were merely mixing reasonably harmless chemicals together to study how they would react once they became one.”

Dean scrunches his face up. “Sounds kinky.”

“I apologize for not being eloquent enough to completely enlighten you on the process of bonds, Dean. The gas seems to have given me a profound headache.”

“No problem, amigo.” Dean assures him. “We can talk about Chemistry later.”

“Very well.” Castiel says, and then is quiet until they’re waiting in front of the school for the bus. They’re in a pretty secluded spot, under a small awning next to a maintenance door. Somewhere along the line, Dean had managed to slip Castiel’s backpack off his shoulders and relieve him of the (admittedly light) burden contained within.

Castiel sways a little on the spot and he sees Dean throw him a concerned glance out of the corner of his eye.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Castiel?”

“Yes.” He leans against the overhang support, feeling very not okay at all. This has to be more than the Bunsen burner. He can feel synapses firing in his brain, and his stomach is churning uncomfortably.

“I don’t understand,” He rasps out, clutching his abdomen as a sudden stab of pain doubles him over.

Dean turns to face him fully, reaching out a hand as if to help hold him up, and then stops halfway through his action. Completely freezes.

“Son of a bitch,” He whispers, looking at Castiel, but not. It’s like he’s looking through him. Into him.

Castiel falls against the overhang this time, his stomach contents feeling like the ocean in the middle of a hurricane. His head is suddenly ringing, screaming, tearing, stretching pain. He slides to the ground, one hand clutching his head and the other clutching his stomach, whimpering.

“What is happening?” He manages to groan out, rocking back and forth slightly. He can almost hear Dean deliberating above him, though what he could possibly be deliberating, Castiel has no idea.

Right before he blacks out, Castiel hears an annoyed, low growl next to his ear, “Thanks, asshole.”

***

Castiel wakes up in his backyard.

“Who’s an asshole?” Is his first question as he sits up, feeling much better than the last time he remembers being conscious.

He glances around, and realizes it’s still light out. He can’t have been out for long. There was only one person around when he collapsed, and only one person who would bring him here.

“Dean.” He says, knowing that he’s got to be lurking around somewhere.

“Castiel.” Dean greets from his right. Castiel swivels his head, sees Dean sitting on the step glumly. He could almost be pouting. Castiel thinks to suppress his laugh, but then doesn’t bother.

“What’s so funny?” Dean snaps.

“You.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Laugh it up, kiddo. Soak it in. After this conversation, you won’t have much to laugh at for a while.”

That sobers Castiel up pretty fast.

“I don’t suppose you could have waited to tell me that extremely ominous news after I had squeezed every last chuckle out of your expression?” He mumbles, rubbing his head in memory of the terrible pain he had felt earlier.

“How long was I out? I’ve never fainted before. That was weird. I didn’t realize it hurt so much.”

Dean sucks in a breath.

“Okay, so I’m not in the mood for pussy-footing around here. You’re going to keep pestering me for information on what happened today, right?”

Castiel nods slowly.

Dean looks like he’s having a conversation with himself, all eyebrow action and twists of the mouth. “I probably shouldn’t have given away that I knew what happened today, but fuck it. I’m gonna say this fast, and then we’ll break it down afterwards, okay?”

“Uh,-“ Is all Castiel gets out before Dean starts.

“The Bunsen burner headache made you weak. I guess you’re more sensitive to that stuff than the other kids, or you just looked especially delicious, whatever, but that wasn’t just a gas headache. It was at first, but then a stray spirit at school decided to ride your ass around for kicks. It jumped on your weakened mental state, and boom, you’re a taxi for a perpetually pissed off ghost, free of charge. It managed to ride you outside, which it shouldn’t be able to do. It was trying to hold onto you as it was being pulled back inside, and it messed you up pretty bad. All that pain you felt? That was the ghost tearing you up inside. Not physically- well, not physically in this world. Like I said, the ghost did more spiritual damage than anything. But you’re okay now. It’s stuck in the school again. You’re here, all patched up. Everything is good.”

Castiel stares at Dean, and a sudden swooping in his stomach makes him afraid he’s about to damsel out again. He takes a deep breath, waits, and is happy to feel it slide away.

There’s a long silence.

“Let me get this straight,” He says eventually, slowly, and Dean nods eagerly.

“My mind was weak because of a headache.”

Nod.

“So a ghost ‘rode my ass’ around for a couple minutes.”

Nod.

“A real ghost that says boo and wears a white sheet?”

“Close enough. But meaner.”

Nod.

“And that’s why I felt so sick.”

Nod.

“So when I collapsed, that was the ghost being torn out of me and back into the school.”

Nod.

“And now I’m here, completely cured of any ghost sickness, and feeling just dandy, even though I apparently suffered severe damage to my soul.”

Nod. Dean seems glad he’s taking this so well.

“So I went from lying in the most pain I’ve ever felt in my life to waking up here, completely fine. Care to fill in those missing scenes for me?”

Dean does a comical attempt at aborting the nod he seemed so fond of for a sharp shake of the head.

“I brought you home, Castiel. You’re fine.”

“You brought me home…” Castiel takes a second to decide how to proceed. Decides to be a snarky little shit about it. “Dean, why do people take busses to school?”

Dean seems thrown by the question.

“Because they live too far to walk?” He ventures.

“Yes. And I assume you didn’t drag me onto the bus unconscious. God forbid, people may talk.”

“No, Castiel, _I_ brought you home.”

“Not that I don’t think you’re physically capable of, say, lifting a cheerleader over your head for a short duration, but could you really drag my dead weight all the way to my house? It’s at least an hour’s walk.”

“I-” Dean scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, looking like the conversation is really getting away from him. “Maybe I’m just stronger than you think, Castiel.”

“I would not like to bruise your ego, but you aren’t near strong enough for that.”

The last thing Castiel expected was for Dean to laugh at that statement.

“No, Castiel, you’re right. No one is that strong. Though I think you may be selling yourself a little too strongly on your intimidating physicality, there. I doubt you’d weigh much more than a cheerleader.”

Castiel rolls his eyes.

“You transported me here, didn’t you?” As verbose as his weirdo mind likes to be, Castiel decides to cut the bullshit.

Dean sighs.

“Yeah. Yeah I did.”

They stare at each other for a moment, Dean tapping out a pattern on his knee.

“It’s an interesting quirk.” Castiel finally manages.

Dean bites out a bitter laugh.

“Interesting? Sure. Quirk? Not exactly.”

Castiel gives Dean what he hopes looks like a _please, go on_ look.

“Ugh, Castiel, I didn’t wanna have this conversation. Ever.” Dean scrubs a hand over his face, obviously distressed. “I mean, I figured it would come out at some point, since I did land in your back garden like some kind of thing from outer space-”

“You’re an alien.” Castiel interrupts flatly.

“N-no.” Dean is quick to correct. “I’m, uh, not exactly of this world, though.”

“You’re an alien.” Castiel repeats.

“No.” Dean replies, more firmly. “Castiel, I’ve only known you for about a day, and once I tell you what I’m about to tell you, well… things are gonna change.”

“I saw you appear out of thin air and had a ghost inside me. I’d say things have already changed.”

Dean shifts on the step slightly, resting his elbows on his knees and interlocking his fingers. It looks like he’s praying.

“I… Don’t think it was an accident I landed in your garden.” Dean admits hesitantly.

“Thought you didn’t have very good aim?”

“I wasn’t aiming when I landed there- here.” He gestures around them. “When I escaped, I just jumped off that plane without a parachute, man. I had no idea where I’d end up.”

Castiel isn’t sure if Dean actually means he jumped out of a plane, but he somehow doubts it.

“Where did you escape from?”

Dean’s fingers lock even more tightly together and he rests his forehead on the makeshift surface.

“I was interested in your name yesterday. I still am.” Dean says, ignoring Castiel’s question.

“Yes, my name is Castiel.”

“Keep going.”

“I’m Castiel, named after an…”

Dogs bark. Cars backfire. Gunshots ring out. Fireworks blast off. Rockets launch. Nuclear bombs are detonated. Castiel doesn’t hear any of it.

“Yep.” Dean chuckles darkly. “I’m an angel of the Lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so. this is easily and by far the longest thing I've ever written, even though it was never supposed to turn out this way. I never thought this would blow up like it did, but things kind of got out of control, and I started building my own world and mythology and it just went from there.
> 
> speaking of, a lot of the mythology that's going to be discussed in this story is completely made up by me. some of it has been changed from canon, some of it is my own creation, and some of it is legitimate mythology if the internet can be believed.
> 
> I haven't decided on an update schedule yet, though be assured that the majority of the story is already written.
> 
> one last thing- no beta, so all mistakes and inconsistencies are completely my own.


	2. Chapter 2

“Huh.” Is the first thing Castiel says.

Dean says nothing.

“No halo.” Castiel assesses.

“Nope.”

“No virginal white robes.”

“Definitely not.”

Castiel stands up and walks around to get a good look at Dean’s back.

“No wings.”

“Um.”

“Wings invisible to human perception.”

“Bingo.”

Castiel chews on his tongue.

“I’m not sure if I believe you.” He tells Dean almost apologetically, sitting beside him on the garden step.

“I can’t believe you’re still sitting here.” Dean says in response.

Castiel gives a noncommittal roll of the shoulders.

“I’m in theology.” He says by way of explanation.

Dean nods slowly.

“Glad public school is good for something.”

They sit. Neither says anything for a moment, and Castiel has a feeling the silence is a lot more conversational than it was this afternoon.

“An angel who goes to public school.” Castiel states.

“Change of pace.”

“I assume it must be akin to jumping out of that plane you were discussing earlier, and then hitting the ground with nothing to catch your fall.”

Dean snorts.

“Something like that.”

“If I’ve accepted that angels exist, do I have to accept Jesus as my lord and savior? Are they a package deal?”

“You can believe whatever you want.”

“Do you talk to god? I don’t capitalize god when I write it. Should I start capitalizing?”

“So does that mean you believe me?”

“I’m not sure. Allow my brain to process it and I will let you know.”

“Sounds good to me.”

They sit in silence for longer this time. Castiel is staring at the ivy in the corner, trying to calm himself down. He kept his cool through the majority of the conversation, but he has a feeling he has been hit pretty hard by some sort of mental shock. His usual abilities to speak paragraphs about nothing seem to have left him for the moment.

He continues to stare at the ivy, and just allows words like _angel_ , _ghosts_ , and _Dean_ to float idly through his head, like stray balloons.

Little by little, he can feel the mental shock wear off, and the time to come to some pretty life-changing conclusions are suddenly staring him in the face. But he needs to clarify something first.

“Ghosts and angels exist.” He says, the first thing he’s said in a while.

“Yep.”

“What else exists? Are all the stories true?”

Dean’s mouth quirks.

“Manbearpig isn’t real.”

“Duly noted.”

Castiel turns his head toward Dean, and he can see the boy (angel) looking at him, the now setting sun reflecting in his bright green eyes. Dean is appraising him, he knows. Trying to read his reaction. The only problem with that is that Castiel isn’t sure what his reaction is yet.

“You don’t look like how I’d picture an angel.” He says quietly.

Dean cocks his head to one side, obviously interested in this admission.

“How _do_ you picture an angel, then?”

Castiel considers. It’s not exactly a question he’s ever pondered at length before.

“Blonde. Female. Glowing. Flying. Halo. Trumpet, perhaps.”

Dean chuckles, and they’re sitting close enough that Castiel can feel the reverberations. He shivers. He’s sitting next to an angel. He doesn’t know what that means yet, but he knows he still can’t wrap his head around it.

The last few rays of golden sunlight streak through Dean’s brown hair, highlighting it, and his freckles stand out more than Castiel has seen. The light may reflect in his eyes, but some of it manages to penetrate the surface and lighten the pigment, turning Dean’s eyes the color of a koi pond.

“An angel who wears plaid.” He states. “Plaid and ripped jeans and workboots- and sentimental pendants.” He brings his eyes pointedly to Dean’s chest, where he knows the pendant is laying beneath the material.

“Who says it’s sentimental?” Dean challenges, tugging it out from under his shirt to lay flat on his palm for Castiel to see.

“You don’t show it to the world, so I assume it isn’t for decoration.” He looks at the pendant, and then back to Dean, who nods encouragingly. It’s still wrapped around Dean’s neck, so Castiel merely reaches out a finger to inspect it. It looks like a gold idol of some kind, maybe a bull, maybe a god from some other religion, though that could possibly count as blasphemy and lead to smiting, if he knows anything about the Bible. Castiel leans his head a bit further, to get a closer inspection. He picks it up between two fingers, and turns it this way and that, watching how the light bounces off it.

“If you’re an angel,” He murmurs, continuing to examine the pendant, “Does that mean that Christianity is the one true religion? Or do other religions have angels?”

Dean huffs out what could be a chuckle.

“I forgot you were in philosophy.” He says, quietly amused.

“And theology,” Castiel adds, finding it harder to concentrate on the conversation. With a blink, he suddenly realizes how close he’s gotten to Dean in his zeal to inspect the pendant. He freezes, pendant in his hand, then he realizes that up close, Dean smells like motor oil and leather, and so earthy that Castiel finds it hard to believe Dean’s feet ever leave the ground. It’s a wholesome smell, that speaks of log cabins and pine stoves and drive by diners and white lines on the highway being eaten up under the tires of an old car. Castiel looks up at Dean, and they’re so close they’re basically sharing the same air. Dean’s eyes are clear, and remind Castiel of the green of a forest after a rainstorm- everything is new and glistening and bright and clean.

With an awkward cough, Castiel pulls away from Dean, letting the pendant drop from his hand. He doesn’t want to meet Dean’s eyes, embarrassed at the close encounter just a moment ago. He stares determinedly at the ivy in the corner, trying to will the blood in his face to return to its normal shindig of running through his veins and not visibly humiliating him like some mother showing up to school in curlers and slippers to bring her kid a forgotten lunch.

“It depends on the stories.” Dean says from beside him, comfortingly, like he’s trying to lure Castiel back into the conversation.

“What?”

“You asked if all the stories were true. Well, it depends. Rattle a few off for me.”

Castiel ponders for a moment the surrealism of the situation. He once again wonders if he’s taken some sort of laced acid, and the last little while has just been one long, fucked up trip.

“Vampires.” He says, the first mystical creature to come to mind, and he’ll be damned if it isn’t mass media’s fault that that’s the case.

“Real.” Dean confirms.

“Werewolves.”

“Real.”

“Faeries, poltergeists, zombies, dragons, demons, unicorns,”

“Real, real, real but not like pop culture has it, real, real, not real.”

Castiel blanches.

“Of all the lines they wouldn’t cross, it was the one that had a horse with a horn on its head?”

“Hey, even angels need bedtime stories.”

“There’s more, I assume.” Castiel says.

“Oh yeah. Loads.”

“Are they all bad?”

Dean’s expression turns somewhat pained.

“It depends. That ghost that hurt you back there? It’s scared, and lonely, and confused. It used to be a person, and it died a horrible death. It’s stuck on this earth, chained to a physical existence that no longer exists.

“Vampires, especially the new ones, run almost purely on instinct. Werewolves too. If there’s no one there to help the new recruits, then things can get very messy very fast. Dragons aren’t really around anymore. They’re pretty much extinct. Faeries usually stick to their own realm.

“But demons…”  Dean’s voice trails off, and Castiel hears distaste color his words. “Demons are nasty sons of bitches. They used to be people, long ago. Then they went to hell, their souls burnt up, and here they are, topside, ready to raise a little home sweet home.”

“Okay, so there’s a hell. I suppose I should have figured that out by now. But demons can get out? How?”

“I got out.” Dean says simply, and Castiel feels something inside him twist.

“You climbed out of hell?” He wants to shout, scream at the sky, but it comes out monotone.

“Wha-what? No!” Dean starts to laugh. When he sees Castiel’s expression, he laughs even harder, slapping his hand on Castiel’s shoulder to steady himself.

“Sorry, Castiel. I shouldn’t have used a sentence fragment at a time like that.” He wipes at his eye with his sleeve, and releases Castiel’s shoulder. “Heaven, Castiel, I got out of heaven. I suppose it would be the Yin to hell’s Yang, or vice versa or whatever.”

“The plane.” Castiel realizes, from earlier in the conversation.

“Yep.”

“So then is hell like… a submarine?”

Dean considers for a moment.

“If you’d like to think of it that way, sure. Hell can be a submarine. Demons do exactly what I did- they look for fire escapes, cracks in the woodwork, escape hatches, whatever they can find, and squeeze their asses through them.”

“Why?” Castiel asks after a moment. Dean quirks an eyebrow at him as if to say, _why not?_

Dean stands up and stretches, arching his back like a cat. He yawns.

“Man, you really took this stuff in stride.” He says, reaching down a hand to help Castiel up. Castiel takes it and pulls himself up. He dusts himself off, and appraises Dean for the fiftieth time tonight.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Castiel corrects, “I’ve spent my whole life ignoring and bottling emotions. I suppose it is revelations like this where those skills finally come in handy.”

Dean offers a quirked lip, and takes a step back.

“I should probably go take care of that ghost,” he says, “I would ask you to join, but somehow I doubt you’ll accept that offer.”

Castiel nods, suddenly feeling like he’s rooted to the spot. There’s a certain lethargy in his limbs, spreading through all his extremities and making his brain hazy. He assumes it’s his brain shutting down after such an exhausting day.

Dean offers Castiel one last smile. It’s an apologetic one this time.

“I hate to dump this on you after a day. In fact, I hate to dump this crap on you at all.”

“What are friends for?” Castiel says, the notion sitting strangely in his chest. Comradeship is a weird feeling.  And then he remembers something.

“Who’s an asshole?”

“What- oh! From when you passed out?”

Castiel nods, and Dean chuckles.

“I was mad. I knew I would have to tell you, and it wasn’t something I was looking forward to. So I guess the ghost got the brunt of my insults.”

“Oh. Was it as bad as you were expecting?”

Dean’s eyes are warm.

“No. Not at all. See ya later, Cas.”

***

After Dean leaves to take care of that ghost, whatever that means, Castiel continues to sit in the garden. He lays back on the grass, feeling like it’s the right thing to do.

He understands that he’s basically stumbled and shambled his way through his life so far- average marks, average intelligence, average potential, average at being average. It isn’t something that bothers him. It’s just who he is.

But sometimes, _sometimes_ , he gets that urge to just _stop_ and maybe pull himself out of his stupor, and see things a little more clearly. It’s sort of like the kid who doesn’t realize he needs glasses until he actually has them on his face, and then hey, look at the individual leaves on the trees! The grains in the tree trunks! The lettering on the sign by the side of the road! But then those glasses break, and the kid has to wait another six weeks for a new pair, and those things he could see so clearly start to blend together again, and he slowly starts to forget that there’s not just one big green blob at the top of every tree trunk instead of thousands of unique, individual leaves. Once the new glasses come in, the cycle repeats.

Castiel feels like he’s having one of those moments of clarity. He knows it in how he can feel the breeze on his cheek, and the cold seep into his bones. He knows it in how he felt, just minutes ago, when his eyes were level with Dean’s chest and his heart was hammering so hard he thought he just may rocket off into the nether because of it. Or perhaps spontaneously combust right there.

Castiel can’t quite recall his last moment of lucidity, and he wonders if it was accompanied by the absurd surge of surrealism he’s feeling right now. He may as well be stuck in a Picasso painting, with an arm sticking out of his head and an eyeball on his elbow. He can walk up stairs sideways and find the exit out of that damn Escher drawing. He can swim in the dribbles left at the bottom of wine glasses on New Year’s Eve. Lighting a cigarette with the flame from Lady Liberty’s torch is a cakewalk. Slide up the banister on the world’s longest staircase. He can forget he even has a body and just float, up and over his house, the suburbs, the city, the country, the world.

No, he’s fairly certain this feeling is new. And hell, why shouldn’t it be? He just met an honest to god angel. His world just expanded so rapidly so quickly that he’s experiencing existential whiplash. All of what he thought he knew, or even knew he knew, is now called into question. God, prayers, free will, determinism, fate, speech, emotions, language, diversity, culture, politics, education- they all take on new meanings. It’s like a whole new layer has been added onto his existence- or he has just realized that it was there. He wonders if this was how the chained-up people felt in _Allegory of the Cave_ after being led to the surface, blinking stupidly in the sunlight. He wonders if Plato had been visited by an angel.

This thing is so huge. So all-encompassing that Castiel really can’t absorb it. It’s perception changing, sending his world tilting on its axis without so much as a “how d’you do”. Angels exist. They really, truly exist. Whether they match what the myths and stories say or not is irrelevant.

And yet maybe it is.

What is an angel? Castiel thinks of the most succinct definition he can come up with, taking the time to curse his depressing lack of biblical knowledge for one who spent so many years in church pews and Sunday school classrooms. Eventually, he decides an angel is an agent of god. One who does his bidding. Completes his will.

But do angels fight? Are they peaceful? Do they impregnate virgins? Is having that one quality of being close to a god enough to lump them in with the angels of myth? If it’s not, then maybe they aren’t even angels, but something else. Maybe humanity’s concepts of angels aren’t even close to the real thing. Maybe they really have no idea what true agents of god are capable of. Maybe they’ve overestimated them for an eternity. Christ, but that idea rocks Castiel’s world just a little bit.

He files all of these questions away for the next time he sees Dean (There will be a next time, he hopes-wonders desperately). And with the filing away of those thoughts, Castiel’s cluttered brain empties somewhat and comes upon the next bomb-dropping of the night.

Dean had called him _Cas_.

***

Castiel doesn’t see Dean for seven days after that, and he refuses to admit that he feels like the world around him is being drained of color. He absolutely does not do clinginess. Does not do longing and yearning. Does not pine. _Never_ pines.

So he doesn’t call it pining when he stands at his bedroom window, looking out onto the garden below. He doesn’t call it creepy when he stares at Dean’s empty seat in English for half an hour straight. He doesn’t call it yearning when his dreams wake him up at night and he can still smell leather and rain forests and motor oil.

He’s known the guy for maybe twenty four hours, for Christ’s sake. Aren’t friendships supposed to take time to grow and blossom? Isn’t there a waiting period for things like nicknames and personal bubble popping? Then again, when you toss around phrases like _angel of the lord,_ he supposes that supersedes most other clauses found in the friendship contract.

For all the things in his life he’s gone halfway for, of course the first thing Castiel falls in full steam ahead with is a friendship with an angel.

Seven days, and Dean never shows up to school. Castiel assumes Dean knows it all a thousand times over, so he doesn’t even bother collecting Dean’s homework. And doesn’t that thought just tickle him-the banal task of picking up homework for Dean. God, but the guy must have been bored in heaven to spend time in this shithole of a public school.

After the first day of Dean’s absence, Castiel is worried- and if he ever admitted things like this to himself, frustrated. What kind of guy drops a bomb like that and then just takes off?

After the second day, he starts to get nervous. What if something happened? What if when Dean went to fight that ghost (and even thinking about the phrase _fight that ghost_ still sends Castiel’s mind through rings of fire every time) and something went wrong? What if he’s lying hurt somewhere between this dimension and the next?

Possibly the most troubling question that Castiel asks himself during the second day is, when did he become the worrying spouse who waits on the front step for their significant other to come home from a business trip?

After the third day, Castiel has settled into the frame of mind he lovingly calls _refusing to admit I give a shit_ and continues about his life as normally as he can, Dean be damned.

So it’s with a certain mixed bag of feelings that Castiel walks into his house in the middle of October to find Dean sprawled out on the living room couch, looking as comfortable as can be, flipping through a magazine that Castiel is pretty sure is written in Arabic.

When the wind blows the door shut behind Castiel, Dean shoots him an easy smile.

“What’s up, Cas? Long time, no see.”

Castiel remembers his assessment from last week ago that Dean seemed to be the only one who could get under his skin so thoroughly, and he’s annoyed to see that this fact hasn’t changed. For god’s sake, Castiel feels like it might have gotten worse.

He gracelessly shoves his backpack beside the coatrack, and, with shaking fingers, deals with the buttons on his coat before unceremoniously throwing that on top of his deflated backpack.

“You don’t call, you don’t write. Not even a postcard. Why, Dean, you make a girl feel unwanted.” He’s meant for it to come across sarcastic and non-chalant, but even he can hear the clipped tone in his voice, and he knows he’s not fooling anyone.

Dean sits up, amusement draining from his face.

“I had some trouble, ah, getting away again.” He says, obviously not pleased with having to confess this hardship he’s endured.

“Ah.”

Castiel stands at the end of the couch, and his eyes meet Dean’s.

“I’m sorry for your troubles. I’m sorry that you couldn’t get away from the majesty of heaven in all its glory to come and reassure a scrawny little human that he wasn’t going completely insane. I’m sorry you had to drop in on said human, drop bombs the size of Canada, and then tottle off again, claiming you were about to go fight a ghost that had just attacked me earlier in the day. I’m sorry you got to spend time safe and happy in heaven while I was down here thinking you got your stupid ass killed by a stupid ass ghost or maybe that I really was just insane and imagined that ridiculous day when I met an angel of the lord who told me things that completely changed my outlook on everything. “

“Whoa, dropping the ‘passive’ and going right for the aggressive, eh?”

“You seem to have that effect on people.”

Dean smirks.

“No, no, I think it’s just you.”

Castiel puts a hand on the back of the couch to steady himself. He doesn’t make a habit of getting into physical confrontations, but he feels like Dean could finally be the one to coax a punch out of him.

This isn’t fair. Castiel isn’t supposed to be the emotional one here. Castiel is never the emotional one. He feels like a turtle flipped on its back, his soft underbelly exposed and vulnerable, and he’s shocked at how much he hates the feeling.

Not knowing how to proceed, because he really doubts there are any protocols in place for a situation like this, he climbs onto the couch and sinks his face into his hands, groaning.

“Cas?” He hears Dean say tentatively, the tone of his voice implying there’s currently a hand reaching out comfortingly towards his shoulder.

Castiel runs his hands over his face a couple times, then plops his chin in his palms, staring at Dean with baleful eyes. There are so many questions trying to work their way out of Castiel’s throat he’s surprised he hasn’t choked yet. He’s not sure where to start, so he simply opts not to.

“We’re watching a movie.” He grunts, flipping on the television and switching channels to one that plays movies. Luckily, they catch one about five minutes in, and even luckier, Dean doesn’t say anything about Castiel’s sudden gruffness.

For two hours they sit and watch the movie that Castiel doesn’t know the name of, and neither of them says a word. Though Castiel can’t speak for Dean, he knows he barely caught two lines and a scene transition, because most of the time he’s throwing sideways glances at Dean. Dean, the angel of the lord. Dean, the living proof that there may in fact be a god somewhere up above the sky so high.

An angel of the lord who likes to cuss and speak like he’s from the mid-west.

There are just… so many implications. Castiel isn’t even a religious nut, or zealously against religion. He just kind of ignores it, like most things in his life.

But something like this, something (someone?) like Dean, must mean that either god’s a lot slacker than people have been giving him credit for, or he’s more of an inactive audience member in the play that is their lives.  Castiel thinks of all the natural disasters and international conflicts he can conjure up off the top of his head. He thinks of the small-town murders across the United States, and all the criminals who haven’t yet been brought to justice. He thinks globally, of the Holocaust and Chernobyl. He thinks of the people who have died in the Middle East on both sides of the conflict. He thinks of the unhappy spirit that attacked him at school a week ago.

What did God have to say about that?

Similar thoughts churl around Castiel’s brain for the remainder of the movie, and once it’s over, he shuts the television off without a word. He stares at the grey screen, trying to think of what to say. He can feel Dean’s expectant eyes on him.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Dean, but that freak out you were so pleased that I didn’t have? I’m currently in the middle of it right now.”

“Oh.” And then Castiel feels the weight redistribute itself on the couch as Dean shuffles close enough to clap a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “It’s understandable, man. It’s a lot to take in. You know…” His voice trails off, and he looks at Castiel with a mixture of gentleness and bitterness. “Angels have the ability to erase memories- not completely, of course. We just hide them really well. But I could guarantee that you would never remember any of this if you wanted me to mind-whammy you good and proper.”

Castiel feels his eyes widen, and he’s shaking his head before he even realizes he’s doing it. He’s even panicked by the idea, visions of the poor saps stuck in the cave in chains for their whole lives flashing in front of his eyes.

“No, no, no. That’s not… No. I almost feel like that would be cheating. My mind’s been going at a million miles per hour since I met you, and erasing those memories would just be… no.”

Dean smiles, and for some reason he seems relieved? Maybe it takes a lot out of angels to mind-whammy a person.

“Can I just- can I just ask you questions? About what being an angel means?” Castiel is trying to regain his composure here, but it’s hard. He’s made it a clear mission in his life not to get swept away by things, and yet here he is, caught in such a strong current that he doubts any amount of swimming parallel to the shore will get him out of this mess.

Dean squeezes his shoulder before letting go, and he scoots back to his original spot on the couch.

“Sure. But I have some questions for you afterwards.”

Castiel swallows.

“Deal.”

***

By the time Castiel runs out of questions for Dean, it’s extremely late, and he’s extremely tired.

Around seven, Castiel had wondered aloud where his parents were, and Dean had informed him that his mother had run into an old friend on the street, and had invited her and Castiel’s father along for a night to catch up. There was enough of a smugness in Dean’s voice that Castiel figured he had pulled a string or two somewhere in the cosmos to get this get-together to happen to allow them some more alone time.

“Are angels really allowed to mess with fate like that?” He had asked sardonically.

Dean had adopted a look of mock outrage.

“Cas, do you really think I would mess with powers like that just so I could continue to answer your increasingly invasive questions? Shit like that is a lot higher than my paygrade, I promise you.” Then his face broke out into a grin. “But I have friends in high places, and when you have wings like us, being at the top of the corporate ladder really means something.”

Castiel snorted, feigning unimpressed, and continued to ask question after question. Some things Dean explained very well, like how angels didn’t need to possess people like demons- they created their own vessels. Other things, however, he couldn’t describe quite as accurately, like when Castiel asked what heaven felt like.

“Well,” Dean had said after a moment of thought, “It’s kinda redundant to say it feels like heaven, isn’t it?” He shifted on the couch, and scrubbed a hand over his face. “I dunno how to explain it, Cas. You kinda just have to be there, y’know? But the thing is…” And he had looked away from Castiel’s gaze. Dean suddenly had the air of someone about to admit a big secret, something that could get him into huge amounts of trouble. “The thing is, I don’t think I feel it the way I’m supposed to. Angels are kinda like one big family, and we’re linked up here.” He tapped his temple. “We can get a read on each other’s emotions and thoughts. Makes it really hard to keep a secret, but I managed to hide it, for the most part. One day, years ago, I realized that I was on a different wavelength from everyone else. Everyone else had this sense of,” He stopped for a moment, to moisten his lips and search for a word. “unity. There was this tranquility inside them, and with the hive mindset, I learned soon enough that everyone felt the same way. They were _happy_. Content. And I mean, hey, heaven has its perks. It’s not like I was forced to live in a rat-infested hovel or anything. I hung around with the family, went to the Sunday-dinners and soccer games. Life was fine, if you could call it life. But that serenity that they all shared? I never felt it inside myself. It was pressing on me from all sides, but the feeling itself never came from inside me, was never a product of _my_ inner tranquility. It’s kind of… claustrophobic.”

Castiel nodded, trying to inject sympathy into his gaze, but he was quickly realizing how out of his depth he was.

“Anyways, sorry, you asked what heaven was like. Well, for me, it was nice. It was survivable. But it wasn’t what I wanted.”

“What _do_ you want?” Castiel asked, feeling like if there were ever a more loaded question, he couldn’t think of one.

Dean just stared at Castiel, his gaze layered. There was determination, but also confusion and fear lingering just under the surface. So many conflicting emotions that Dean could have either smited him right there, or leapt across the couch and kissed him, and Castiel wouldn’t have been surprised either way.

Castiel couldn’t help but wonder if Dean was always such an open book. Emotions played across his face like an action movie- loudly and obviously, but he could also close the book with a resounding thump, and the proceeding cloud of accompanying dust, as soon as he realized someone was turning the pages.

“I don’t know.” He had answered, and Castiel almost wanted to cough on the imaginary dust that was just blown in his direction.

Maybe Castiel wasn’t the only one who needed desperate aid in the emotional health department.

***

Dean had taken off pretty soon after that- actually, Castiel had kicked him out pretty soon after that, with the promise that Dean would show up for school the next morning.  (It may have been hot button news that god’s messengers were walking the earth, but that didn’t change the fact that Castiel enjoyed sleep very much.) Apparently, angels didn’t need to sleep.

“Dean, it’s 3am. Go do angel things for a couple hours, and then I’ll see you at school.”

“C’mon, I can zap us to Japan or the moon or something. We’ll go somewhere where the drinking age is under 18.” Dean’s eyes were shining in the soft light from the street lamp outside, and Castiel almost said yes, because _what the hell_. The guy just seemed so stoked that Castiel hadn’t run for the nearest psych ward after the angel news and then his extended vacation, that he was in a genuinely good mood. But that didn’t change the fact that he was about to pass out in Dean’s lap in approximately thirty seconds, no matter how endearing Dean’s proposals and obvious excitement were.

“You have no problem zapping me all over the world, messing with fate, and completely upturning my life in one day, and yet balk at legal drinking ages?”

Dean adopts a serious expression, made somewhat moot by the glint in his eyes.

“Gotta draw the line somewhere.”

“I’m not sure this line coincides within any of the boundaries you’ve displayed so far, but I reserve the right to judge other cultures, be they airborne or not, so I suppose you win this one because of my staunch political correctness.” Castiel deadpans, suddenly curious where drinking with an angel falls on the PC spectrum.

“You talk like a friggin textbook sometimes, you know that?” Dean’s eyes darken for a moment, but there’s humor and slight bemusement in them as well. Castiel isn’t exactly sure what that look is trying to convey, so he continues with what he was originally going to say.

“You talk like a farm boy from Kentucky with a sunburnt neck. I suppose we’ve both subverted expectations.”

“Oh, Cas, so quickly we fall from our pedestal of the politically correct.” Dean can obviously give as good as he gets when he’s taken by the mood, and Castiel fully expects to take advantage of that- when he’s not swaying on the spot from exhaustion.

“You think you’re pretty clever when you’re tired.” Dean observes, following Castiel’s swaying amusedly with his eyes, like he’s watching a particularly slow tennis match.

“It’s a character defect.” Castiel admits. “Which is probably why I should have been asleep about three hours ago. I’m much dumber when all my neurons are firing at normal speed.”

Dean grins, and the tiredness must really be getting to Castiel, because he swears Dean’s gaze is soft enough to wrap himself in and use as a blanket that would inevitably give him the best night’s sleep of his life.

“Okay, Goodnight Moon, maybe you really should go to bed. You’ve giving me _that_ look, and normally I’d take that as an invitation, but I think this may be the first time I’ve ever seen bedroom eyes referring to actual sleep.”

By this point, Castiel is too far gone to even hear half of what Dean is saying. He gets up, sways, (hell, they didn’t need to get drunk, Castiel may as well have drank a fifth of vodka with how fuzzy his head is getting) and suddenly Dean’s standing, breaking his personal bubble _again,_ and has a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Maybe our first real trip on Angel Airwaves can be a little more domestic.” He says thoughtfully, and then there’s two fingers on Castiel’s forehead, and sweet, sweet mattress beneath him.

“Pillows,” He grounds out, groaning in pleasure.

He hears a soft laugh from somewhere above him, and a warm, firm grip on his shoulder again, and then the pressure is gone, and so is Dean, if Castiel’s spider senses have anything to say about it.

Five minutes later, he’s drifting in dream world among forests, feathers, and chop sticks.

***

It’s 8am, and Castiel is awakened by a very unholy “THE LORD HAS BESTOWETH UPON US ANOTHER LOVELY DAY, AND WE SHALL NOT TAKETH IT FOR GRANTED, LO”, and a cheerful slap on the ass though the bed sheets from a bright eyed and bushy tailed Dean, though Castiel isn’t sure if he can use that expression for someone who doesn’t sleep.

“Gonna wake m’parents,” He grumbles into his sheets, because apparently his pillow somehow ended up on the floor between 3am and now.

“Not if they decided to go out for coffee before work,” Dean replies cheerfully, opening Castiel’s curtains with a flourish. Castiel groans and shoves his other pillow over his head.

“Abuse of privileges,” He says to his mattress.

“C’mon Cas, don’t be such a grumpy Gus. I promised you I’d go to school today. In fact, I’m kinda looking forward to it. First real day and everything.” He hears Dean putzing around his room but he has no idea what he’s doing. He’s not sure if he wants to know.

“Why are you a morning person,” It’s not a question.

“Interesting philosophical question, dearest Castiel. If one’s biological clock isn’t affected by the rotation of the earth, can they really be considered a morning person?” His steps stop, as if he’s considering another answer. “But I’m also just a bottle of sunshine 24/7, is the less douche-y answer.”

“Are you sure?” Castiel mumbles.

In response, Castiel feels the sheets suddenly ripped off him, and he involuntarily curls into the fetal position to retain the warmth he just had under the covers. Dean obviously took it upon himself to open the window too, and Castiel can feel the beginnings of some mighty goosebumps in the chill October air.

Who knew angels could be such dicks? Though something tells Castiel that Dean may be somewhat unique in that sense.

“God, you’re such a baby,” Dean complains, and reaches down to press a couple of fingers to Castiel’s temple. Suddenly, he isn’t tired at all, and is wearing a new set of clothes that he’s never seen before.

“Oh,” He says mildly.

“I also may have written that paper on the Fourth Crusades for you.”

“What?” Castiel, head fully cleared courtesy of angel mind-whammy, dumbly replies.

“Well, okay, I didn’t _write_ it, but I may have procured some, ah, primary sources for you.” He gestures to a pile of documents sitting on Castiel’s nightstand. Castiel feels like his eyes are about to fall out of his head.

“You- I- _jesus_ ,” Castiel leafs through the papers carefully, afraid to even breathe on them. Journal entries, shipping manifests, maps, letters, the whole shebang. Historians the world over would give _so many_ blow jobs to get their hands on stuff like this.

“Whoa. I rendered you speechless, dude. Another item to cross off my bucket list.”

Castiel manages to find his voice after another full minute of ogling.

“This is amazing.”

“Yeah, well, you told me to go do angel stuff, so I did angel stuff.”

“I- I don’t even know what to say. Thank you,” Castiel says reverently, still too shocked to be embarrassed at how giddy he currently is.

“I’ve gotta return them, obviously. Once you’re done the paper. Maybe I can take you on the return trip.”

Castiel just nods, his brain unable to process most of what Dean’s just said. He puts the map he’s currently holding back onto his desk like he’s placing the Holy Grail or something (he may as well be). He doesn’t want to take his eyes off it.

“They’ll be fine,” Dean reassures him, and pulls lightly at his shirtsleeve. “C’mon, don’t want to be late.” He basically has to pull Castiel out of the room like a new puppy, gripping his shirtsleeve the entire time, and eventually just gives up and guides Castiel down the stairs with both hands on his shoulders.

“Jesus, I didn’t realize you had such a boner for history,” He says as Castiel is shrugging on his jacket. (Not a new one, thankfully. Castiel was rather fond of this one, if you could count the absence of dislike as fondness.)

“I enjoy it. Origin stories fascinate me. Who knows, maybe the church had more of an influence on me than I thought.” Dean quirks a smile at that, and Castiel continues, “It’s exciting, and I don’t understand how most people don’t seem to see it that way. It’s something real.  Something tangible. It’s not like in the books where everything is fiction. Besides, when you look at history as a whole, it doesn’t make us seem like such fuck-ups. I mean, we came from living in caves and hitting dinosaurs on the heads with clubs to shit like this.” Castiel gestures uselessly around himself, and then pulls back from that comparison quickly, considering how much he hates this particular place.

“You know that humans never encountered dinosaurs, right? Millions of years in between ‘em.” Dean informs Castiel warily, like he’s not sure how he’ll take the correction.

Castiel levels a glare at Dean.

“I’m aware. I was just using a popular image of what people associate with our ancestors to get the point across.”

Dean nods and clears his throat.

“Good. I’m glad.”

“I never really took you for a history Nazi.” Castiel says, and then realizes what he’s said. “Huh. I was trying to take the idea of someone who obsessively corrects grammar and applying that to history, but I suppose for context’s sake, it isn’t the best comparison.”

Dean snorts.

“I don’t need to be a ‘history Nazi’, Cas. I can just show you how things were. The history books don’t always get everything right,” Dean’s face sours a little as he says that, and Castiel assumes there’s a sore spot or two there.

“History _is_ written by the winners,” He concedes. “I would like to see how things really were.”

“I can’t promise a trip a day- time travel is pretty complicated, after all- but I can definitely take you to through the highlight reel. We can even do it to the tune of an 80’s training montage, if you’re so inclined.”

“I think the time travel will suffice,” Castiel says as casually as possibly, because, hey, _time travel._

“Good. I think we’ll avoid the 80’s altogether. Music was good, but the hair was bad.” Dean considers. “ _Very bad_.” He amends with a shudder.

Castiel chuckles, and is somewhat surprised by it. Chuckling isn’t usually in his repertoire.

Dean gives Castiel a once over.

“The new clothes look good.” He surmises.

“Mm-hm.” Castiel hums vaguely, grabbing his backpack. “Not sure why you bothered. I have clothes.”

“Not clothes that bring out the color of your eyes.”

Record scratch. Castiel’s cheeks heat up so fast he’s not positive someone didn’t clamp his face in a waffle iron when he wasn’t paying attention. At the same time, his stomach turns like a tumble dryer, and his head just groans and asks if Dean wants some whine with that cheese.

He turns around to face Dean stiffly, not exactly sure how he’s expected to respond, when he realizes that Dean is staring at him with huge amounts of unveiled mirth, obviously pleased with the reaction he’s gotten. Dean cracks up, bracing one hand on the wall for support and the other on Castiel’s shoulder.

“Oh man, you should see your face, Cas. Jesus, I figured that would get you, but I didn’t think it’d be that much.”

Castiel narrows his eyes and glares at Dean, but that just makes Dean laugh harder.

“We’re going to be late, Dean.” He says pointedly.

“Okay, okay,” He wipes a tear out of the corner of his eye and huffs once more. “Man, it’s been a long time since I’ve laughed that hard.”

Castiel once again thinks about engaging in a physical confrontation, but refrains.

“Let’s head out,” Dean -finally free of chuckles- says, opening the front door. Castiel follows him into the early morning sun, which seems to be a rather slim façade promising heat considering the glittering world in front of him. It obviously frosted over at some point last night, and everything is sparkling in the light. Castiel rubs his hands together.

“Can’t you just zap us to school?” Castiel asks, stopping to lock the door behind them.

“Aw, I don’t wanna do that. I want the full-on public bus, avoid-the-back-row, make-suggestive-faces-at-the-hot-sub public school experience, Cas.”

“Haven’t you done this many times before?” Castiel asks.

“Different schools, different countries, different languages, different… prospects, my man.” At Castiel’s dubious look, Dean smirks. “I’m a people person, Cas. What can I say?”

Castiel feels a prissy eye roll should be answer enough, and shoos Dean to start walking down the front path.

“That’s not even how they speak in the Bible,” Castiel informs Dean, referring to his wake up call this morning. Honestly, he can’t be sure- he just says it to grate on Dean’s morning cheeriness.

“Hm. Wouldn’t know. Never read it.” Dean says casually, and Castiel can’t help but gape at him all the way down the front walkway. He refuses to ever tell Dean that he’s been rendered speechless by him twice in one morning.

***

They get to school relatively without incident, though Castiel can’t help but feel somewhat like the frazzled mom who has to drag her hyperactive kid through the candy aisle of the grocery store.

Dean’s mood is just buoyant today, however, and Castiel can’t help but be taken in by it. Just a little.

They part for most of the morning, but they both have English last period before lunch. His first day, Dean hadn’t stayed for any of his full classes, and had only talked to his teachers enough to get a feel for them. Unsurprisingly, Dean had practically charmed the pants off their attractive English teacher who seemed to have a monopoly on inappropriate work wear, Ms. Blake. (Though those were Dean’s words, and Castiel still didn’t know him well enough to ascertain whether he spoke the truth about all of his supposed sexual conquests, or just really liked to exaggerate. Besides, the idea of angels and sex together just made Castiel’s brain clamp down like professional-grade handcuffs. )

Luckily, Ms. Blake isn’t in the class when Dean shows up, but a number of students are, and Castiel can hear the buzzing increase from happy fat bumblebees in a garden to somewhere around provoked hornet’s nest level. New kids tended to be hot topics at Castiel’s school, considering the depressingly small amount of pupils and lack of other scandals to make life more interesting in small town America.

Dean practically oozes charm and confidence as he makes his way to the empty seat beside Castiel.

“Man, the kids around here are easy as fuck. How the hell did you end up the only one with a cactus up his butt?” Deans asks as he slides into his seat, sans notebooks. Castiel had failed to notice Dean’s lack of supplies earlier, due to the fact that he didn’t care very much. Also, he wasn’t exactly one to talk.

“I do not have a cactus up my butt, Dean. My pupils are nice to you because you’re novel and handsome. They are similar to magpies, in that they get distracted by the shiniest object in the room.”

Dean looks up at the ceiling, shielding his eyes as if staring into the sun.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Cas, I couldn’t hear you from way up there on your pedestal. Mind repeating that for me? Maybe a little louder?”

Castiel sighs a tight lipped sigh, and Dean shoots him a shit-eating grin.

“Gotta learn to chill out a little, dude. They’re all people, and all worth something. Worth saving.” At that, his eyes cloud over a bit, and Castiel has to remind himself that angels, as instruments of god’s will, probably love humans a whole lot. Unbelievably, it actually makes him contrite.

“I suppose,” He says by way of apology, and even if it comes out a little stiff and uncomfortable, Dean seems pleased with it.

“S’all good. Besides, a lot of em’ really can be little pieces of shit sometimes.” Dean flashes him another grin. “You don’t get around as much as I have without seeing some really shady stuff. But on the whole, they’re pretty good. And their sex? It’s pretty great.”

Castiel is ready to ignore the part about sex, and is about to ask just how long Dean has actually been getting around, when the bell rings and Ms. Blake walks in as if she had been waiting outside the door the whole morning to time her entrance perfectly.

“Find your seats, people. You know the drill.” She says just like she does every day. “First twenty minutes I want you reading your chosen book for you novel study…” She trails off when she catches sight of Dean, lounging in his chair without a care in the world.

“Dean!” She says, a little too brightly. “Welcome back to class.”

“Thanks, Ms. Blake,” Dean’s charm is turned on full-blast, and the first three rows all seem a little dazzled by it, if Castiel can go by the blushing and subsequent rise in temperature in the room.

“Class, for those of you who don’t know, this is our new student, Dean Winchester. He moved here last week from- where was it, Dean?”

“Lawrence, Kansas.” Dean supplies helpfully. All heads are turned towards him now, and Castiel is caught in enough of the crossfire to make him somewhat uncomfortable. “Hi.” Dean waves sheepishly, though he obviously means for it to be an act, because there’s a few appreciative titters, and Castiel hears a girl behind him whisper to a friend, “It’s like looking into the sun!” With his super angel hearing, Dean obviously hears, and Castiel sees the smile quirk just that much further.

“Alright guys, give him some room,” Ms. Blake chides, though Castiel can see she’s just as enamoured as the rest of the class. Dean returns his gaze to the teacher, and she swallows before sitting behind her desk and taking a (seductive? Castiel isn’t sure) swig of water. “I’m sure you’ll all make Dean feel welcome,” Is the last thing she says before telling the class again to get their books out.

Obviously, the time for silent reading isn’t used for such, and Ms. Blake seems resigned to that fact, since she doesn’t bother telling the murmuring class to shut up. More than a few curious glances make their way towards Dean’s seat.

Dean leans over to Castiel and murmurs, “Dude, for such a small town, it has wicked potential in prospective mates. And MILFs,” He adds, glancing at Ms. Blake. “Though the MILF thing doesn’t exactly bother me, considering,” He gestures at himself to make his point.

“You _look_ seventeen.” Castiel informs him, rather obviously, thinking about the night Dean explained that angels created their own vessels.

Dean waggles his eyebrows. “Good recovery time, if you know what I mean.”

Castiel chews on that scrap of information for a moment.

“So is that why you chose a young vessel? Sexual prowess?”

“That’s part of it, yeah.”

“Is there another part?”

Dean licks his lips and rolls his shoulders.

“Yeah, but it’s not near as fun as the first reason.”

Castiel just stares at him, waiting for a proper answer.

“Okay, well, technically, by,” he glances around to make sure there’s no curious listeners, “ _angel_ standards, I’m pretty young.”

“Pretty young as in…” Castiel prompts.

“As in 17.”

After a beat, Castiel says, “So, by angel standards, you’re seventeen years old in human years?”

“Yup.”

“Is there even a conversion factor there? Is it like dog years to human years?”

Dean, clearly out of his depth here, only says, “I had help with the conversion.”

“Help from _who_?” Castiel suddenly realizes the breadth of services that he’s obviously been missing out on all these years. He wonders if there’s an angel-human age converter number in the yellow pages.

“A brother. _My_ brother.” Dean says, and Castiel sees something in Dean that he hasn’t seen before- real, genuine pride. Not in himself, but in this brother. Dean’s face practically glows when he talks about him. Castiel wants to know more about this brother that Dean’s so very proud of. And suddenly, Castiel doesn’t care about angel years and human years, and the conversation becomes about so much more.

“Tell me more about him,”

“Well, his name’s Sam for one. Sammy.” And the way that Dean shapes the name, the way he says it, like there’s a million memories behind it, a million nuances in how the years have shaped Dean’s human mouth saying that name in varying ways over time.

Even if Sam has never touched earth, (Castiel can’t be sure, and hasn’t yet asked about the corporeal state of other angels) Castiel can hear Dean yelling at Sam to do the dishes, can hear him explaining to his brother how to play poker, can see him teaching him the ways of the world (and beyond, since apparently Castiel needs to take that into consideration now). And even though Dean doesn’t say that Sam’s the youngest, he doesn’t need to. Everything that Castiel needs to know about Sam is in the way Dean says his name. Castiel more than anyone knows what’s in a name, knows when it feels right and good, and it’s in the speaking of Sam’s name that Castiel realizes how much more there really is to Dean Winchester than meets the eye.

Since meeting him, he’s doubted Dean’s sincerity from time to time, but there’s no denying the fondness that warms his eyes and softens his face when he talks about his baby brother. There’s no misinterpretation here- Sam is Dean’s everything. No tricks, no charm and confidence and winks. It’s just Dean being Dean, talking about things Dean loves.

It affects Castiel in a strange way, because Castiel truly believes that he is just naturally built to eternally have his tank of emotions running on low. He figures he either sprung a leak somewhere along the way, or his car was fucked from the start. It doesn’t bother him, particularly. He’s gotten through life on a cool plateau of apathy, and, though the two should never meet, he also has a healthy disposition to never shut the fuck up when he’s feeling an excess of any sort of emotion. Coping mechanism, he figures.    

But sitting here in this crappy English class full of people who don’t care (including Castiel), it’s rather endearing to be sitting next to someone who cares _so_ much, no matter how flaky the exterior. (And again, Castiel should not be one to throw stones about the character of someone)

It reminds Castiel somewhat of when Dean told him about heaven. He’d been quick to close the book, to slam it on the emotion before Castiel could properly process it, but now, talking about Sam, it’s like the book isn’t only open, but turned towards him and written in size 72 font, as if Dean isn’t just content with him knowing about Sam’s goodness, but he needs everyone else to know it as well.

And Castiel will be damned if he doesn’t find that thought endearing. He likens it to forever dipping his toes in the kiddy pool, only to be pushed into the deep end of the real pool without water wings, and is surprised to find that he can not only tread water, but navigate the depths fairly competently. He’s basking in the borrowed emotion, and it’s amazing at how well it keeps him afloat.

They keep up the conversation for as long as the silent reading time will allow, and when Ms. Blake finally calls their attention, Castiel tears his eyes away from Dean’s, and it’s only when he does that, when he feels the loss of connection between himself and the angel, that he realizes there was such a strong one in the first place. It’s like they’ve been in their own little world, and Castiel is just stepping off the space shuttle after having landed back on earth, and everything just seems a little _off_. He’s not sure what it is, and some survival instinct long buried tells him he doesn’t want to find out.

He realizes he’s been holding his breath. Shakily, he exhales, and shoots a sideways glace at Dean. Dean catches his eye, and it’s then that Castiel thinks maybe the connection wasn’t a one-time thing, because as soon as their eyes meet again, there it is, almost a physical thing. Castiel sees matter displace around it, sees the universe rearranging itself for that connection, like it’s realized that _whoa, that’s some serious shit,_ and is backing off with its palms out, placating. He can feel the warmth radiating from Dean beside him. Dean is looking at him quizzically, but there’s still a softness in his gaze that makes Castiel wish he weren’t so emotionally detached, so he could feel even a fraction of what Dean feels. For the time being, he merely wraps himself in the borrowed emotion, and tries to enjoy it as much as he can. From the look Dean’s giving him, Castiel can’t quite shake off the notion that Dean is enjoying sharing it as much as he does.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the one where shit gets real

After the extremely weird experience that was English class, Castiel is glad for the cold air to clear his head at lunch. Dean is at his side, unsurprisingly, and the two find a nearby picnic bench to sit at. Dean stares at it dubiously.

“Dude. Splinters in the ass much?”

Castiel ignores him, and Dean sighs and sits on top of the table, his feet on the bench beside Castiel’s ass. He squirms for a minute, as if trying to feel out possible splinter-y attackers, but seems satisfied enough and eventually relaxes.

“Who’s on the pedestal now?” Castiel mumbles, staring at Dean’s shin-which is eye level- pointedly.

Dean kicks him with a foot that Castiel assumes can stomp stone into dust, and is grateful that Dean decided not to kick him across the field or something.

“Do you eat?” Castiel asks. He’s never seen Dean eat. Then again, he’s never offered him something to eat either. Most of their interactions have been a little too involved to stop for a kit kat break.

“I don’t _need_ to.” Dean says. “But I like to. It doesn’t affect me in anyway.” He gestures to himself. “If I ate a pie every day for a year, I would never gain a pound.” He gets a faraway look in his eyes. “I actually did that once, y’know. One pie a day for about a month. It was a good month.”

Castiel is vaguely nauseated.

“How does that affect your physical body, though? Doesn’t it fill up eventually?”

“Nope. I don’t need to use the bathroom, don’t even need to brush my teeth if I don’t want to.” When Castiel’s expression goes from ‘vaguely’ nauseated to full on _Exorcist_ projectile vomit, Dean puts up two hands defensively.

“Hey, just cause I don’t have to doesn’t mean I don’t. They’re pretty human routines, so I’ve gotten used to them.”

“What about things like sweating? Coughing? Sneezing? Crying? Blinking? _Breathing_?”

“Okay, do you need some Ritalin or something? I know angels are new and everything to you, but you gotta ask one question at a time.”

Castiel doesn’t bother to dignify that with an answer. Dean isn’t the one with a currently upside down world to try and make sense of.

“Okay, so how it seems to work is that things like emotional reactions, like crying and sweating, yes. Those things I can feel. Pain too, though it takes a lot to really hurt me, and I’m almost impossible to kill- uh, how about we say I’m actually impossible to kill. I like that better.

“As for things like blinking and breathing, again, they’re just sort of the routine, aren’t they? Blood pumps through my veins. I’ll bleed if I’m cut. My heart beats. But if any of those things are stopped, I won’t stop living. I won’t even be incapacitated, and I can fix it in a-“ He stops and chuckles. “I was gonna say I could fix it in a heartbeat, but that didn’t seem like the best comparison. Then I was gonna say I could fix it in the blink of an eye. Guess that one doesn’t work either.” He squints into the grey sky, as if searching for the words somewhere in the clouds. For all Castiel knows, that’s exactly what he’s doing.

As if struck by inspiration, Dean pops out of existence, and in the moment it takes Castiel to realize this, he’s back, sporting a gleaming hunting knife. He hops off the table and stands right in front of Castiel, trying to place the blade in his right hand.

“Stab me in the heart.” Dean says, like he’s just asked Castiel to pass the butter.

“What?! Of course not!” Castiel gasps, pushing the knife back at Dean with something akin to panic.

“Cas, just do it. I’m proving a point.”

“I’m not going to stick a knife in your chest you crazy bastard!” Castiel figures losing some semblance of coherency in a situation like this is more than acceptable. Waxing poetic can’t stop a bullet- or a knife- after all.

“Oh, for the love of-“ Dean shoves the knife into Castiel’s hand, wraps his own fingers around it, and shoves the blade toward himself. Castiel feels the impact of the penetration, feels the give as the blade continues to slide in, its track becoming smoother and smoother as the knife meets less resistant organs than skin and bone. Dean refuses to let go of his hand, which means he can’t let go of the knife, and he’s staring at the hilt of the blade sticking out of a leather-clad chest.

“See, Cas? I’m good. Very not dead.” Dean says like he’s describing the weather. But Castiel can’t stop looking at the knife, at the red flower that blossoms outwards from it, on Dean’s jacket, spreading like a pen just burst on an inside pocket. But Castiel knows it’s so much worse than ink. Somehow, his fingers are covered in red, and he belatedly realizes that he’s shoving Dean’s jacket off, trying to rip open the plaid shirt beneath it, and then the t-shirt beneath that to get a proper look at the wound.

Dean huffs as if impatient with his own demise, and Castiel just gets more and more afraid, forgoing the ripping of the plaid to just pop the snaps as fast as he can, and then he’s lifting up the dark t-shirt, ready to do something, _anything_ , to stop this nightmare from happening. He’s mentally going through what little first aid he knows when he finally has his hands against Dean’s bare chest, searching out the pulsing wound. And he finds-

“Nothing.” Dean explains gravely, maybe realizing how much the whole ordeal has affected Castiel. “I’m fine Cas. I healed myself. It didn’t even hurt.”

“I- You made me stab you!” Castiel manages to blurt out, and feels his knees start to quake. He goes to sit down before he realizes he already is sitting down, and then his upper body starts to shake too. “I felt the knife pushing into your skin. The blood was running over my hands and you just kept _pushing,_ or maybe you were pulling and I was pushing, but I didn’t want to, and then you _made_ me, you forced me to stick a knife in your chest, and I felt it scrape against the outside of your _heart_ , Dean, and then it pushed in and I felt it _stop_. The knife stopped, and your heart stopped, and no matter what you say I stopped a heart and if you had been human you would have been dead right away.”

Dean takes a moment to ground out something that sounds like, “philosophy student”, before he softens a bit, and Castiel feels the unsaid apology in the air between them.

“Jesus, Cas” Dean says, distress in his eyes and etched into the set of his mouth. “I didn’t mean for it to be like that for you. I just wanted you to do it so you could see for yourself. I figured I could show, not tell, the answer to your questions.” He bends down on one knee in front of Castiel, one hand on a shoulder and the other on the side of Castiel’s neck. His hand on Castiel’s neck tangles in the hair at the nape, and Castiel can’t stop the noise that comes out of his mouth. “God, Cas, I’m sorry. This vessel has gotten pounded to shit so many times, I guess I’ve just gotten used to it.” Dean’s breath (that he doesn’t need to breathe) is warm and reassuring in the space between their mouths, and it means that Dean’s not dead, that he’s alive and okay and in front of Castiel. Castiel can’t say anything, is once again rendered speechless by this angel who has taken a liking to him for some reason, and has to complete their connection made of desperate grasps and bloody fingers, and he grabs Dean’s forearms and holds on for dear life, his hands still sticky enough with blood to not slip on the leather. The hand that’s currently tangled in Castiel’s hair moves a little bit, massaging his neck, and Dean is suddenly close, too close, and his forehead is resting against Castiel’s. They’re sharing air now, and Castiel has closed his eyes because _too close too closetooclose_ and he wants to wrench away, wants to throw himself over the bench and into the school and into a class where history is the most important thing in the world and not _this,_ with connection and emotions and pain and way too _much_ because Castiel can’t hold whatever it is that’s clawing around inside his gut, and he knows it’s only going to devour him from the inside out, shredding him like that knife shredded Dean’s jacket and Dean himself. Castiel isn’t an angel; he can’t be cut to ribbons and then expect to survive, like Dean did. He can’t, and he won’t, and he refuses to.

Dean takes his hand off Castiel’s neck and gently pries one of his hands off his jacket. He places Castiel’s hand on the spot where the wound is- _was_ , Castiel reminds himself- and presses firmly, so Castiel can be sure. “See? Nothing there. The clothes don’t even have holes.” And they don’t. Dean has fixed them, and they’re as good as new. Dean’s thumb strokes the back of Castiel’s palm in reassurance, and Castiel shudders, feeling too many nerve endings tingling, too many sensations of feeling running up and down his body with nowhere to go. (Nowhere he wants them to go, anyway.)

So when Dean whispers his name, “Cas”, and he says it in only the way Dean says it, all understanding and soft curves and the way it dances on his tongue, even as a nickname, it’s trying to loosen Castiel’s resolve, and he feels the thing inside him snapping and raking its claws along the insides of his ribs like a prisoner runs his cracked mug along the bars on his cell, making terrible, echoing music that reverberates in the hollow of his chest like organ music in an empty church, and he wants to _choke_ because there’s nothing else he can do- _choke_ back the words, _choke_ back the desire, _choke_ back the emotions. And he bundles it down somewhere deep inside his chest, somewhere the thing can’t reach it, and it’s a tight little ball that won’t break, even if someone shoves a hunting knife all the way through him.

Castiel tightens his grip on Dean’s forearm, curls the hand on Dean’s chest in a ball, and squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, trying to communicate that he needs there to be space, that whatever is going to happen next is not going to happen, because it _can’t_ happen.

Dean must get the message, because suddenly Castiel is breathing his own air again, and Dean’s hands have vanished from his body. He’s looking down at Castiel with an unreadable expression on his face, and Castiel is just about let himself relax when Dean touches a finger to the back of his hand. Castiel jerks away, but not soon enough- the smell of blood that Castiel had forgotten about till that moment is gone, and he realizes that Dean has cleaned him up with a single touch. Dean doesn’t react to the flinch, but his expression doesn’t change.

Castiel can’t even apologize, because then that would mean there’s something to apologize for, so he just sits with his hands intertwined and stares at his knees, because he can’t bring himself to look at Dean. 

Eventually, after what seems like hours, even though it’s probably only minutes, and maybe even seconds, Dean heaves a sigh and sits down beside him, this time on the bench. There’s no contact, but Castiel can feel the heat radiating off Dean again, and his body reacts before his mind can, and it’s an almost comical battle, because his body wants two things. Initially, it tries to lean into the warmth, but then it scoots away, far enough that Castiel only feels cold, and he’s so sorry for being an asshole, even though he’s not allowed to be sorry. It’s been his factory settings since the day he was born, to not let other people warm him.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says quietly, and Castiel doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, but he hopes to god that it’s for the stabbing thing, because if it isn’t, if it’s for the _other_ thing, then when Castiel says, “It’s okay,” it makes it sound like Castiel is acknowledging that it happened, and Castiel is expressly not acknowledging that, because it _didn’t happen_ , so there’s nothing to acknowledge.

***

Castiel promises himself that there will be no more connections, and no more… other things. He can be friends with Dean. He can learn about angels and about every other myth-that’s-actually-not and all the advantages that come with being able to fly and various other godly activities.

He can learn about Sam and what a nerd he is, even for an angel. He can hear stories about Sam from when he was a kid, and can learn about Dean through what he says about Sam. When Dean tells him about the time Sam almost teleported every angel within six dimensions into a nearby black hole because he was working with some weird, heavenly math and physics along with heavy doses of angel mojo, Dean laughs with his whole body, like he’s witnessing the memory right in front of him. When Dean tells him about how he used to get Sam to sleep (sleep in heaven and sleep on earth are two different things, apparently) by telling him stories about humans and how great and wonderful they are, he gets so nostalgic that Castiel asks him if he ever travels back to those days just to revisit the memories. Dean huffs a quiet laugh and tells him that no, once again, time works differently in heaven. Heaven exists across many planes of existence at once, and it just _is_. Similar to stasis, Dean clarifies, though that doesn’t help Castiel much. With a sigh similar to a parent who has to explain how to use the toilet to their two year old _again,_ Dean tells Castiel that time doesn’t really exist in heaven.  Castiel asks how memories can exist if time doesn’t exist, and Dean tells him that time is a man-made concept that they can’t exist without because otherwise, the calendar business would take a severe hit.

“Sorry man, them’s the breaks.” Is how he finishes their serious philosophical discussion with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“You didn’t actually explain anything.” Castiel says peevishly.

“That’s the way the cookie crumbles, I guess,” Dean says, and takes a bite from a bag of cookies that has suddenly popped onto his lap, crumbs spilling down his shirt.

“How are you an angel,” Castiel asks with no question mark, trying to keep a straight face.

Dean stretches out on Castiel’s couch, resting his feet on Castiel’s lap because _hey, what personal space?_ , and just waggles his eyebrows, eyes glinting in the shadows.

“I can do some things that are truly angelic, I promise you.”

Castiel is glad it’s dark, because that is most definitely not a blush creeping into his cheeks.   

***

Not all of Dean’s reminisces are so enjoyable, however.

He listens politely to Dean’s stories about various partners over the years, about all the things they got up to, and most definitely does not feel put out. Dean doesn’t bring up past encounters a lot- only if he has an especially humorous or unholy story to share.

“And I swear, she said ‘oh my god’ and ‘god dammit’ so many times, I almost lost it. No one likes to talk about their dads in bed, Cas.”

He gives Castiel random tidbits of advice like that, lessons he’s learned over the years. It could sound patronizing, but it doesn’t. Dean not only talks the talk, but walks the walk and apparently sexes the sex. He most definitely has galaxies more experience than Castiel. Castiel just soaks up all the hook-up talk with monotonous remarks that Dean has learned to take in stride, and often wants to punch a wall two seconds after Dean’s left for the night. 

Not only that, but Dean also swears up and down that he’s got something going on with Ms. Blake outside of school, and Castiel swears to himself that that revelation doesn’t make him want to rip every piece of literature from the past thousand years into tiny shreds and then force feed them to his English teacher.

“I’m tellin ya, Cas, angel or not, if you ditch someone on your first date, you better bring em’ some friggin flowers and frilly stuff to make up for it.” He laughs and shakes his head wearily. “Rob wasn’t exactly a happy camper when I got distracted and called him six hours later to apologize.”

Castiel gives the expected almost-smile Dean must by now associate with Castiel and his stories, and so he goes on.

And on.

***

“So. Vessels.” Castiel says one night, closing the door behind him as Dean pops into existence on his bed.

“Really?” Castiel raises his eyebrows. “We were downstairs, and you had to zap up here?”

Dean shrugs. “Perks of the wing-gig.”

Castiel just stares at him, then shakes his head and sits in his desk chair, crossing his legs. The chair has wheels, so he rolls over next to the bed.

“Vessels.” He repeats.

“Vessels.” Dean echoes.

It’s dark out by now, and a shaft of moonlight that sneaks in between the part in the curtains plays across Dean’s face, leaving half of it in shadow. It gives him that ethereal look that Castiel often forgets to associate with him. It’s too easy to think of him as human.

“You told me once that angels create their own.”

“They do.”

“So why’d you choose- this?” Castiel asks, gesturing vaguely at the entirety of Dean.

Dean chuckles.

“I’m a stud muffin, man. Why do you think I chose a vessel that looks like this?”

Castiel refuses to be sidetracked. He wants to ask questions tonight.

“Did you shape your vessel in a way that _you_ thought was attractive, or that you thought others of your preferences would find attractive?”

“I chose this form as something _everyone_ would find attractive.” Dean says, like it’s glaringly obvious.

“But what about the details?”

Castiel sits there expectantly, waiting for Dean to explain. Dean sits on the bed and looks at him, eyebrows raised.

“Gonna need a little more than that, Cas. What details are we talkin’?”

“Why did you choose a male vessel?”

“Easier to jerk off,” Dean says, with no hesitation whatsoever.

If Castiel had been taking a sip of a drink at that moment, it would have ended up spit all over Dean, though Castiel knows he shouldn’t be surprised by answers like these anymore.

“Okay…” He fishes around for another question. “Why the green eyes?”

Unexpectedly, Dean’s shit-eating grin settles into a more serious shape, and something glints in his eyes that Castiel can’t name. Dean looks down at Castiel’s comforter and a slight slump in posture finally clues Castiel in on the feelings front. Dean is _shy_ about this. Well.

Castiel tries for a soft voice, though he honestly can’t tell if he succeeds. Maybe he should buy a tape recorder and start recording himself. He _can_ learn emotions. Just like he can learn to swim or ride a bike.

“Why’d you choose green, Dean?”

Dean brings his gaze back to Castiel and licks his lips, rolling his shoulders under his thin t-shirt. “It’s kinda dumb,” He says self-consciously, “I chose this form a long time ago and just… it’s dumb.” He finishes lamely.

Castiel wants to say something comforting and soothing, something that’ll make Dean feel okay about telling him. But he doesn’t know how to do that, so he just nods and says, “Uh huh.” Even his toes are telling him to either shape up or ship out on this friendship thing.

There’s a gale blowing, but Castiel tries to tie that damn ship down regardless.

“Dean,” Castiel says, and it’s flat, if not for the somewhat sharp edge. “Tell me,”

Dean crosses his arms and says nothing, but he doesn’t have the air about him of someone searching for words to explain it.

Knowing he’ll regret it, Castiel reaches across the space between them and gently pries Dean’s arms out of their stiff posture. The appropriate amount of time passes for Castiel to have his hands on Dean’s arms. His hands stay where they are, and the proximity alarms start to ring in Castiel’s head.

Castiel wants to know the answer to this question. He wants to know what makes Dean so shy about this, and something tells him he can get the answer if he plays his cards right. He can do it, he thinks, can do the touching if it means Dean will tell him. If he distances himself from it, watches it like an out of body experience, he can extract the information mechanically, like those arcade games when you use the claw to get the stuffed toy you want.

Castiel is about to think he’s put too much stock in how Dean responds to touch, is about to withdraw his hands and curse his stupid idea in the first place and crawl inside the nearest hole, but then Dean exhales, long and slow, and his shoulders slump, and Castiel tries to push him just a bit further. The hands he rests on Dean’s forearms tighten slightly, and he can’t be held responsible if his thumbs start to draw lazy circles on the smooth, pale underside of Dean’s arms.

He can feel the urge to _back up, whoa, hey, slow down,_ blooming in his nerves, like watching a bomb hit and the ensuing mushroom cloud before the sound reaches him and knocks him off his feet. But Castiel isn’t content to _not_ learn things about Dean. Not only because he’s interested in the angel and everything he represents, but because if he’s learning about Dean, then Dean isn’t learning about him.

“Dean,” He breathes out, leaning forward in his chair, “What could be so bad?”

“It’s not that it’s bad,” Dean admits, defeated. He shifts, obviously uncomfortable. “My eyes are green because of how the earth looks from space. They’re green because of how rainforests look after a storm, and how pine trees look covered in snow in winter. They’re green because that’s the color I associate with… here.” He gestures vaguely around him, trying to encompass the whole world in a half-hearted embrace.

His tone had started out clipped and professional, as if he figured being clinical as possible would save him from betraying the passion behind the statement, but by the time he was halfway through it, Castiel was thrumming from the tangible wistfulness and fervent feeling in Dean’s voice.

Castiel nods, and then doesn’t know what to say. He wanted to know the answer, and he got it, and Dean opened up to him. Castiel casts around for a word, a stock phrase, a Hallmark greeting, but can’t think of one. His mouth wants to move, wants to fill the silence between them, stretching out along their connection like something physical. Too many assumptions can be made in silence.

So he does the stupidest thing he could ever do, and tells the truth.

“At least you picked the right shade of green.”

Castiel isn’t sure how he had expected the statement to be received. In his head it was sincere and complementary, but his mouth twisted it on the way out, making it flat and deadpan. Dean, however, obviously thought it was hilarious, because in the next second, he’s laughing like his life depends on it.

“Are you _serious_ , Cas?” He manages to get out between heaving huge gulps of air. “’At least you picked the right shade of green.’” He mocks, voice dead like Castiel’s. “Oh man, open up to a guy and he fucking compliments you on not being color blind. I mean, yeah, okay, it’s not like I sat with a box of heavenly crayons or anything to choose the color. It was a little more complicated than that. But Jesus Christ, dude.” And then Dean’s laughing again, his words lost in general bemusement.

Castiel smiles, slow and unsure. He supposes this is an acceptable reaction, and once again finds himself sharing in the amusement with Dean, the angel’s laugh infectious.

 He thinks about how he got Dean to admit this to him, and how it turned out in the end- as a laugh between friends. (Friends? It’s still a foreign concept.) Something good came from Castiel trying his hand at emotional manipulation. Something, that he promises himself, doesn’t equate to mixed signals or cruelty.

***

A couple of days later, and Dean and Castiel are playing angelic twenty questions once again.

It’s been a long night, and Castiel’s ears are leaking angel trivia. They’ve once again moved from Castiel’s bedroom to downstairs, Dean claiming it keeps him from getting flabby, though Castiel’s pretty sure it’s just because he likes to show off his ability to disappear and reappear faster than it takes Castiel to make it to the couch.

“Thanks for the crash course,” Castiel says, standing up and stretching, feeling his elbows crack. He’s somewhat proud of how calmly he can take angel news nowadays. “I feel a little less crazy, though don’t be surprised if I ask you to turn water into wine sometime just to prove everything you just said to me. Or walk across water. Or cure blindness. Et cetera.”

Dean stares up at him from his spot on the couch, and grins wolfishly.

“Jesus was actually a pretty cool guy. He would have been a lot less cool if he turned wine into water. Guy knew how to party.”

Castiel feels his eyebrows rise.

“Isn’t that blasphemous?”

“Eh, I think humans and angels have different definitions for the word. And then Christians have entirely different definitions than both of them.” He chuckles.

Castiel shakes his head, grinning ruefully.

“Still can’t believe you’re an angel. Plaid, workboots, public school, blasphemy, who knows what else?”

Dean’s eyes are bright and mischievous when he stands up and pops Castiel’s personal bubble so quickly Castiel would have fallen backwards if Dean hadn’t reached out a steadying hand on his elbow.

“What else?” Dean asks playfully, breath blowing across Castiel’s cheek. He’s staring at the angel, stunned into submission, his mind doing a confusion mixture of a victory lap and running and screaming like the track is on fire. “Well…” Dean smiles, all teeth, and lets go of Castiel’s elbow, maybe accidentally trailing his fingers down Castiel’s forearm. “I can do things like turn on TVs without a remote.” On cue, the television turns on to a channel that makes Castiel blush. If he had been alone, it wouldn’t have been a big deal. But with Dean right here, and the two of them sharing body heat, yeah, it kind of messes with Castiel’s faculties. “I can dim the lights.” The television turns off, and suddenly Castiel is standing in the half-gloom of the living room, with moonlight streaming in the big front window and reflecting in Dean’s eyes, which are currently the color of pine trees in winter. “I can make it cold.” The lights stay dim, but suddenly the air gets so frigid that Castiel’s teeth start to chatter and he can feel his breath catch in his throat. Dean, thanks to his angelic origins, has not been affected by the cold, and his hot hands rubbing on Castiel’s biceps elicit a rather embarrassing moan that comes out completely without permission.

“You’re ch-cheating.” Castiel accuses him weakly, rubbing his own hands on his arms, needing all the friction he can get. He can feel Dean grin rather than see it, and then hot breath is in his ear, “What am I cheating at, Cas?” and Castiel has no answer for that, because what can he say? Dean stops Castiel’s hands and brings them to either side of his neck, and Castiel almost whimpers at the heat that seeps into his numb digits. Dean continues to rub his arms, and he draws patterns in Castiel’s skin without breaking his path. Castiel lets his head fall forward, completely lost in the contrasts of heat and skin and cold and ice, even though the part of his brain that’s still half-frozen is screaming at him that this is bad bad bad, and he needs to run in the opposite direction as fast as possible.

Castiel is moving his hands on Dean’s neck, swiping his thumbs in circles and massaging gently with his now warmed hands, not coherent enough to ask himself what the fuck he’s doing. Without a conscious command to do so, one hand slides up the back of Dean’s neck, and pulls lightly at the hairs at the base of his scalp. Dean’s fingers tighten on his arms, and Castiel hears him inhale sharply. Encouraged, Castiel brings his other hand up, running it through Dean’s hair, massaging the scalp and gently pulling fistfuls of hair every once in a while. He can hear Dean’s breaths coming shorter and harsher, and Castiel feels a sick pleasure at somehow finding a way to be in charge in this whole fucked up scenario.

It’s like they’re opposite charges, because Castiel finds himself moving closer and closer to Dean, and Dean seems to be doing the same thing, and before he knows it, Castiel is in Dean’s arms and Dean has him wrapped up in a hug that’s cold and hot at the same time, and smells of leather and motor oil and, hey, is that apple pie, and it’s like he’s in the middle of the forest in autumn and Dean has been hiking for the whole day because he’s covered in soil and twigs stick to his pants legs but he smells so natural and smoky and suddenly Castiel realizes what Dean smells like and it scares him so badly that he forgets about the cold and the magnet inside him, and tenses up and puts his hands on Dean’s chest and shoves him away, breathing hard and afraid out of his mind.

The temperature and lighting in the room go back to normal, and Dean’s eyes are wild and dark and wide and Castiel is starting to shake, but not from the cold. It’s reverberating through his whole body, and he can feel the headache coming on, and the bile rising in his throat, and he’s a vase teetering on the edge of its stand, and any second he’s going to fall off the edge because he’s _too close_ and nothing can hold him back and he knows that’ll be it. When he falls off that stand and breaks into a thousand miniscule pieces, there’s no way he’ll ever be able to glue himself back together. He’ll never be the same, he’ll never have every piece where it was before because it’s impossible and small, tiny, insignificant pieces will fall through the cracks and scatter under the rug and end table, but it doesn’t matter because without them, he’s not the _same_. He’s been irreversibly altered. No trade-backs, no returns, no exchanges, not even store credit with a receipt.

Teetering on the edge, and all it takes is a butterfly kiss to send him careening into oblivion. How fragile we are, he manages to think, and then Dean’s small voice is saying, “Cas?” like he’s actually worried, and that’s it. That’s the game, folks. The light kiss to send the vase tumbling end over end from that table, and it shatters just like Castiel expected. Just like Castiel knew it would. And all he can do is stand there, watching the pieces catch in the light of the moon, and they reflect green eyes and falling leaves and other pieces, like the ones that reflect blue and familiarity go flying off to god knows where and he’ll never see them again and he cries out a silent plea but it’s too late. They’re gone and he’s not the same. Won’t ever be the same.

He closes his eyes, can feel Dean’s gaze on him, can feel the worry and confusion emanating from across the room, and he wants to dunk his head in sand because he can still smell it. Still holds Dean’s scent wrapped around him like a blanket, and he just wants to throw it off and burn it and toss the ashes in the nearest river, and watch as those ashes get carried into the ocean and they disperse and never manage to coalesce again. But he can’t, and in fact, in a moment of weakness, he wants to wrap the blanket tighter around himself, curl up in front of the fireplace, or watch the stars in the sky, or sit on the porch and listen to the sounds of the night, because, even across the vast expanse of Castiel’s living room, across the cavern that he now wants to be between him and Dean at all times, Castiel can still smell it. Can still smell Dean.

And he smells like home.

***

Castiel flies out of that room as quickly as possible, mumbling some utter and complete nonsense about going to sleep which probably came out more like garbled throat vibrations, and he really can’t bring himself to correct the matter.

He prays (and isn’t that a laughable thought) that Dean won’t follow him, won’t bother him, won’t ever find his way here again, because Castiel just can’t do it.

Lo and behold, Dean doesn’t follow him. Castiel isn’t sure if it’s some big cosmic game, or if the big kahuna is up there enjoying the show, but again, he can’t bring himself to care. He just needs Dean very very far away from him at the moment.

Castiel is lying on his bed again. He’s thinking about his intimacy issues, because apparently he has some.

But more than that, he’s trying to pick up those pieces of the vase, and all he’s getting are bloody fingers.

He feels extremely overdramatic, embarrassingly overdramatic. Especially since whatever happened downstairs happened between him and an _angel_ , and that doesn’t even freak Castiel out near as much as it should. Not compared to that feeling of being that close to someone.

And Christ, Castiel doesn’t even know Dean that well. They’ve had a couple conversations, that’s it. A couple of incredibly tense conversations, perhaps, but still. Numbers are numbers. Castiel is somewhat aware of how the sex world of high school works. A couple people will remain monogamous, though those are the rare ones. The majority tend to make out drunkenly at parties and then possibly hook up over the next couple of weeks, and then that’s it. Sometimes people date, but not for very long.

He’s also aware of the idea of a connection at first site. (He refuses to use the “L” word even mentally, because that would just put a cap on his insanity.) He thinks back a couple weeks, to Dean flying into his garden unannounced and uninvited. He thinks about how he babbled over Dean’s body lying the dirt, spouting the first crap that came to mind. He tries to recall how he felt that first night. How he felt about Dean, this mysterious figure who just dropped into his life and his garden with his bright eyes and leather jacket and stupid smirks.

Castiel has no idea how he felt that night. He has no idea how he feels now. All he remembers is feeling surreal. All of his interactions with Dean have such a dreamlike quality about them, that maybe that’s a clue in and of itself, though Castiel has no idea what it could be. Is that a good thing? Does it mean his senses are somewhat inhibited when Dean is around?

He tries to enter his own subconscious, wanting to understand what’s going on back there, hoping that at least someone in his brain knows what’s going on, but he comes up empty.

He tries to focus on exactly what he’s feeling right now.

He’s scared. Really scared. Confused, too.

Castiel puts his hands over his face, and takes a deep breath.

“You don’t. Even. Know. Him.” He grits out, balling his hands into fists and pressing them into his eyelids.

There’s so many emotions chugging through his system right now, he figures if he cut himself his blood would have to fight to escape before the corporeal version of mixed feelings.

With this thought in mind, Castiel steals into his parent’s bathroom and pops a couple sleeping pills, hoping that they’ll kick in quickly.

Within another half hour of him staring, frustrated, at the ceiling and blatantly ignoring his own thoughts, Castiel finally passes out, utterly spent.

***

Castiel’s inner clock informs him it’s the deepest bowels of the morning hours when he’s shaken roughly awake by someone hissing his name.

He’s still extremely groggy, considering the sleeping pills from only hours before, and the fact that they haven’t worn off yet.

“Cas! C’mon, man, you gotta wake up.”

If he didn’t still have copious amounts of drugs running through his veins (he may have exceeded the recommended dosage in an unwise attempt to fall asleep faster) he would have probably fallen out of bed in shock, because the person who was currently trying to teach him to fake a seizure was also the only person who called him by that name.

“Cas! Buddy, I need you to open your eyes.”

Blearily, because he can’t manage much else at the moment, Castiel cracks an eye and sees Dean way too close for his hazy mind to deal with right now. He groans loudly, and Dean has a hand over his mouth in the next second, his eyes pleading with Castiel to do- well, something. It’s too dark for Castiel to get any kind of read off him.

“I’ll answer your questions eventually, but you need to put some clothes on right now, and we gotta get the hell outta here.”

Castiel makes a noise behind Dean’s hand that the angel interprets as a grumpy, _why?_

“I’ll explain later. You need to get your ass out of bed, Cas, or you won’t have much of one to sit on anymore.”

Castiel blinks at him, the pills playing with his perception.

Dean rolls his eyes and scrubs a hand over his face.

“Okay, this needs to happen now. Tried to do it the nice way, but we really don’t have time for this anymore.”

Dean reaches somewhere behind him, and before Castiel can get a sloppy word in through his brain fog, Dean dumps a mixing bowl of ice water right on top of him.

Castiel’s shout is, once again, caught by Dean’s palm, hot and insistent against his mouth.

“Sorry,” He grits out, and yanks Castiel out of bed so hard he’s surprised his shoulder stays in its socket. His hands stays over Castiel’s mouth, and before he can so much as bite Dean’s hand, they’re out the door and down the stairs and into the back garden, Dean hissing things he probably means to sound comforting on the way.

Once they’re standing in the middle of the garden, Castiel’s eyes find the ivy in the corner like a reflex, but for once, it does nothing to stop the adrenaline coursing through his veins. Dean’s arms are like vices around him, and Castiel couldn’t even turn his head if he wanted to.

Castiel is absolutely freezing, feeling his hair turning into icicles against his forehead. His teeth would be chattering if Dean didn’t currently have his hand halting any sort of oral movement. He’s still in his t-shirt and jeans from last night, but his midsection if completely soaked through, and his arms are bare. He has no shoes on.

“I swear I’m not fooling with the temperature this time,” Dean mumbles the almost-apology distractedly. He’s speaking in the voice of someone whose eyes are roving all over the immediate surroundings, looking for menacing shapes in the shadows. The arm he has around Castiel’s chest constricts slightly, like by tightening his grip, he’ll be able to warm Castiel. Strangely, even though Dean’s skin was hot to the touch last night (and Castiel feels a mental cringe at the memory) he now feels rather cold, like the temperature was actually able to affect him.

They’re standing out in the yard for at least ten minutes before something happens. One second, the backyard is quiet save for the soft _shush_ of Dean’s leather jacket brushing against the back of Castiel’s t-shirt, and then the shadows that Castiel was so sure Dean had been watching with growing trepidation start to move, start to grow and twist, and Castiel sees deep red irises in the mass of shadow that looks somewhat like the head, and he hadn’t been really struggling before, because cold and drugs had tired him too much, but now he fights, trying to throw Dean’s hold off with a surge of adrenaline he’s never been privy to before. 

Dean only tightens his grip, and Castiel has absolutely no chance of getting away. He has the ludicrous notion that if he ever bothered going to the gym, he may not be facing his imminent death at the hands of sentient shadows with red eyes only because he couldn’t break a damn hold from behind.

“Cas, _stop_ struggling,” Hot breath is in his ear and Dean is more pissed off than afraid. “Where the fuck are they?” He grits out, seemingly more to himself than Castiel.

The shadows are moving closer, and Castiel feels a whimper somehow escape out his nose, or possibly his ears. However it gets out, the shadows all stop immediately, and suddenly give off the vibe of taking a vote of confidence. There’s a ripple of what feels like unanimous agreement in the air, and then they continue to encroach, this time with more aggressiveness than insidious, malicious intent. Castiel isn’t sure which approach scares him more, but he figures he would have gotten eaten either way.

The first shadow is just about to join itself with Castiel’s own shadow, when suddenly there’s the horrible swooping feeling of misjudging how far down a stair is at a 3am bathroom run, and the world is whipped away so fast and in such a blur that Castiel isn’t sure he didn’t just pass out, or is experiencing his life flashing before his eyes. All he knows for sure is that Dean is right beside him, so whatever adventure they’re going on, it seems like they’re going together.

With a thud and a buckling of knees, Castiel finds himself hitting solid ground at a much harder velocity than he would have preferred. His face is pressed flat against something rough that scratches his cheek and the smell of cleaning agents and mustiness assaults him as soon as his sense of smell is back online. He decides to stay in this position for a minute, because at least the world (and thankfully, his stomach) has stopped spinning, and he just needs a moment. Just a _second_ , thank you very much, to contemplate what in the holy ever loving Mary mother of god just happened.

There’s a presence by his head, and the curious trait of humanity to be able to sense things like that tells him it’s a pair of familiar workboots, and that they’re hesitantly facing him, trying to decide what to do.

“Cas?” Dean says hesitantly, and Castiel can see Dean awkwardly trying to bend down and assess any possible damage.

“Mmf.”

“Cas, are you okay?” And on his back there’s the ever so slight pressure of a gentle palm.

No, no he isn’t alright, and it’s more than the fact that he was just assaulted by shadow monsters.

“Peachy.” Castiel grits out, rolling away from Dean, and consequently, his lingering hand. He sits up and takes stock of his surroundings. They’re in a motel room. Probably some backwoods dump deep in redneck territory, if the mounted fake deer head on the wall is anything to go by. There’s a television that looks like it would be more at home in the 80’s sitting on a scuffed table, and Castiel is currently leaning against one of two beds covered by hideous comforters only motels like this seem capable of procuring. Castiel is positive he’s never seen a color quite like that in a store before.

Then there’s Dean, one hand on the floor and one on his bent knee, looking like he’s in a rather uncomfortable position. He obviously hadn’t moved from his attempt at comforting Castiel.

They stare at each other, and Castiel wonders if that’s question enough. Dean doesn’t say anything however, just finally sits like a normal person on the ground, one leg out in front of him and the other bent in towards his chest, supporting a lazy elbow and free-swinging forearm.

“Uh,” He says, at the exact same time Castiel says, “So.”

They both wait for the other to speak.

“What’s going on?” Castiel asks as Dean simultaneously says, “I fucked up.”

“You go,” Castiel says.

  “Okay, so-“ And he stops, sudden realization dawning in his face. “You’re still sopping wet.”

It’s only when Dean says the words that Castiel realizes as well. Adrenaline can make you forget a whole lot, apparently, because Castiel is suddenly all clacking teeth and blue lips. He reaches behind him to the bed, and yanks the comforter off, wrapping it around himself. Dean is up and over to him, worry sparking in his eyes, but Castiel levels him with a steely glare.

“Stay over there. I’m fine.”

Dean looks like he’s waging an internal war, and then acquiesces, returning to his former position. He’s looking more intensely at Castiel, though. Probably for the first signs of hypothermia. Dean seems to have forgotten at some point along the way that it was his fault in the first place that Castiel got drenched with ice water.

“What’s going on, Dean?”

Dean’s jaw sets, and his hand curls into a fist.

“Remember when I said I had friends in high places? One of the pitfalls of that is that I have enemies in high places, too.”

Castiel feels his face tighten, but the twinge in his heart is greater.

“Oh.”

“They booted me out.”

Castiel blanches, unable to refrain from stating the obvious. “They kicked you out of heaven?”

“Yep. And tried to come after you for quote on quote, corrupting me.”

Castiel isn’t sure if he wants to laugh, cry, or punch Dean square in the nose. Then again, he almost always seems to want to punch Dean in the nose. Just another day in the life, then.

“The most dangerous thing I’ve ever done,” Castiel says slowly, “aside from knowing you, apparently- was the time I left a toy at the top of the stairs when I was a kid, and my dad tripped on it and broke his foot after the ensuing fall.”

“That wasn’t even you being dangerous, though. It was a mistake.”

“That’s the point I’m trying to make, Dean. There is no possible way I could have corrupted you.”

Castiel thinks of Dean’s hands last night, thinks of all the other times- The shared breath, the looks, the desperation in his voice when he whispers Castiel’s name. If anything, Dean has been corrupting _him_. Not the other way around.

“Besides,” Castiel continues, “this isn’t your first time on earth. You’ve spent time with countless humans, and done… things with them that we most definitely haven’t done. I don’t see how they could think I’ve corrupted you any more than the others.”

Surprisingly, Dean’s face turns beet red at that, and he starts muttering under his breath.

“Yeah, well,” He finally says, loud enough for Castiel to hear, “I’ve told you before. I always felt like a lot of stuff they do upstairs doesn’t make a whole lotta sense. Who knows why they’ve latched onto you.”

Castiel draws the blanket tighter around him. Dean notices, and stands up, searching for something in the room. Castiel watches him, getting the feeling that Dean isn’t telling him everything.

Well of course he isn’t. If he had, Castiel could have probably at least been expecting a flee in the middle of the night and ice water dumped all over his head. Could have made some preparations. Instead, here he is, with wet clothes and a scratchy comforter, in a motel room in the asscrack of the United States, with an angel who just got kicked out of heaven who he happened to have a way-too-intimate moment with not hours before.

And, he allows, it was probably kind of hard for Dean. Y’know, with getting kicked out of heaven, of all places.

Dean finally locates the thermometer by the door to the room, glares at it a moment, then taps it with a knuckle.

“Yep. This baby’s busted.”

As much as Castiel doesn’t want to bring up _last night,_ he figures his numb digits are a little more important- his brain does, anyways. His shame? Not so much.

“Can’t you manipulate the temperature with a snap of your fingers?” He asks, almost mockingly, because there’s no chance Castiel is going to discuss this like a proper adult.

Dean turns to him with an _are you sure you’re alright?_ Expression mixed with a _Christ, you’re dumb sometimes._

“Dude. Kicked out of heaven. It’s not like staying in a motel and stealing towels and conditioner. When they kicked me out, I got stripped. No more powers, no more wings, no more temperature manipulation abilities.  I’m basically like- you. Human.” Dean says the word with a grimace and a hollow look of fear in his eyes. Castiel knows Dean likes earth. The guy basically crafted his vessel in honor of it, for christ’s sake. But watching the monkeys at the zoo are a whole lot different than opening the door to that cage and joining in the fray.

And that doesn’t even begin to cover all the implications…

“What about Sam?” Castiel asks quietly.

At that moment, Dean standing by the temperature gauge and Castiel leaning against the naked bed, all of Dean’s composure, all of the bravado that Castiel’s been seeing over the past few weeks, melts away like an ice cube on the sidewalk in summer. It’s just Dean, pale-faced and scared and heartbroken, because no wings means he can’t fly, and no flying means no seeing Sam, and no seeing Sam means… Well, it means nothing and everything at the same time. Nothing, because that’s exactly what Dean will become if he can’t see his brother. Castiel’s heard enough of Dean talking about Sam to know that Dean’s life revolves around Sam, knows that the bond they share is one unbroken by time or distance or planes of existence. But it means everything, too. Because Sam is Dean’s everything.

Castiel is a little disturbed to realize just how much he’s come to like Sam, despite the two of them never meeting.

Dean is clearly still muddling through the onslaught of emotions that Castiel’s question raised, (or probably just made more evident, because the thing about Dean, Castiel has come to realize, is that no matter how blank the slate, there’s usually something simmering away beneath the surface) because his eyes are watery and Castiel can see his Adam’s Apple working in his throat like he’s trying to swallow past a pretty big lump.

This must be a turning point. The crossroads of the one of the only relationships Castiel has ever had, and most definitely the weirdest. Castiel can decide now whether to give Dean the cold shoulder, to completely shut himself off from the angel, or he can try, at least, to offer some form of his personal brand of awkward comfort. He can clap a hand on a shoulder, give a small, _it’ll all work out_ smile, can use touch to calm, because that’s the kind of person Dean is. He’s physical and strong and present, and responds to those who are physical, strong, and present as well. Castiel is none of those things, but he could do his damndest. He can forget his own misgivings about this whole relationship, can put aside how he feels to attend to Dean’s needs, because at the moment, they are greater than his own. He can give without having to take.

Can’t he?

Dean is still standing, hunched in on himself, and Castiel is still on the fence, trying so hard to work through a gelatinous mass of emotions as fast as possible, because his window of opportunity is closing fast on one of his options, and soon he won’t even be able to choose if he doesn’t _hurry up_ and-

-and there’s a crash on the opposite side of the bed closest to the wall.

Dean is moving faster than it takes Castiel’s brain to even register what just happened, staring into the space between the wall and the bed with such surprise that it would be comical if they weren’t both on the run from forces evil and unknown.

Castiel is afraid it might be the shadow things. Afraid it might be one of the angels that are apparently after him for corrupting one of their own. Afraid it might be an angry motel manager with a baseball bat just to round out the list and ground it in reality.

What he doesn’t expect, however, is the sound of breath catching in Dean’s throat, the sight of him grabbing the thing behind the bed, yanking it up and into what looks like the most bone crushing hug Castiel has ever seen. He knows. As soon as Dean’s face turned from one of caution and hunting into one of recognition, Castiel had known.

He doesn’t need the frantic repetition of Dean’s voice, gruff and scratchy with emotion, to know who the new addition to the room is.

He wonders if he will like Sam as much in person as he does in Dean’s stories.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam the exposition fairy pays a visit.

Castiel isn’t sure of the term, or if there is a term, but he feels that Sam is a little… overenthusiastic about meeting him.

 “Castiel?” Sam stares at him hard, still wrapped up in the ugly comforter, a couple minutes after his graceless landing, because apparently those things run in the family.

Dean is leaning against the wall now, looking between his brother and Castiel with interest.

“Yes.” Castiel says formally, not sure what to say, and most definitely not sure how to react. Dean may be an angel who swears and drinks and fornicates, but he’s still not sure if it’s something the other angels do, though he gets the feeling that Dean is rather… unique in that sense.

Dean scoffs from his spot against the wall.

“For god’s sake, Cas, give him a little more than that. Don’t play all coy.”

Castiel shoots Dean a look, before turning back to Sam and attempting to pull his features into a smile. Sam looks at him hopefully, and Castiel is rather violently reminded of a puppy.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sam. I suppose Dean has told you about me. He’s told me about you. You’re rather large to be a little brother- in vessel form, anyways.”

A slight smirk pulls at Sam’s mouth.

“My true form is bigger than Dean’s, too.” He says, holding back a full-out grin.

Dean snorts.

“The volume of your vessel’s hair must puff it up somehow, you big hippy.”

Sam looks at Castiel as if to say, _welcome to the family_ , and Castiel feels the familiar, contradicting sense of warmth and the urge to take flight that always seems to punctuate his time with Dean.

“Whatever, jealous,” Sam mutters under his breath, before continuing, more seriously, “It’s a mess upstairs, Dean. Everyone who knows is freaking out, and half of them are holding sit-ins on your behalf and the other half are sending Zachariah fruit baskets.”

By the look on his face, that’s pretty much exactly what Dean expected. “Speaking of fruits, what’s old Zach Attack up to, anyway? I’d like to have a friendly conversation about my neutering.”

Sam shrugs, obviously already fully informed and passed the freak out point about Dean’s sudden powerlessness.

“No one’s sure. No one’s seen him since it happened.”

Dean leans his head back against the wall.

“Man, what I wouldn’t give for five minutes alone with Zach and an angel blade…”

Sam’s face goes sympathetic, and Castiel figures this is his chance to intervene, since he really has no idea what’s going on, and would quite like to know.

“As far as I understand it,” He starts, and Dean’s gaze jerks towards his. Sam seems ready to listen to him like what he’s about to say is the most interesting and important thing he’s ever heard. “Uh, I mean, apparently I corrupted Dean or something, and he had to come drag me out of bed in the middle of the night-“ Sam chokes back something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh turned cough, and Dean glares at him. “Yeah, so I’m dragged out of bed with ice water dumped all over me, we’re standing outside in weather that isn’t shy about freezing various bits off, and then we almost get attacked by shadow monsters but get flown away in the nick of time, by someone who I’m assuming wasn’t Dean, since he can’t currently fly.” Castiel thinks back on what he just said, thinks back to earlier in the living room… “It’s been a weird night.” He concludes.

Sam’s still got that eyebrow raised from when Castiel talked about being woken in the middle of the night, so he turns to Dean.

“How’d we get here?” He asks. Not the most pressing question, but hopefully a simple answer to ease Castiel into things.

“Still got friends near the top of the ladder, Cas. They pulled a few fancy strings, corporate espionage kinda shit, very secretive stuff. All dark sunglasses and fingers tapping on noses.”

Sam huffs. “Just in case something like this happened, Dean had one of his friends who’s allowed to travel to and from earth take a coffee break and zip down here and help you guys to a safe point. No one needs to know, and for the time being, you’re safe. Well- sort of.” He shrugs a little at the last part, and Castiel sees Dean roll his eyes.

“Sort of?” He echoes.

“Normally, angels can track each other. We’re in each other’s heads all the time. Various spells, curses, _punishments_ ,” he adds pointedly, “Can make it impossible to track an angel. Dean can’t be tracked right now. When they took his powers, they took the ability to track him. We respond to our own kind, to each other’s essences.”

“How’d you find us, then?” Castiel asks.

“Dean and I share a closer bond than many of our siblings,” Sam says matter-of-factly, though Dean rolls his eyes again. “We’ve been through a lot together. I can trace Dean on a different wavelength. Usually, he tends to tune into _denial_ rather strongly as well. It isn’t just a river in Egypt.”

“Sam.” Dean grits out.

“Dean.” Sam responds, calm. “I’m just answering Castiel’s questions.” He turns back to Castiel. “Anything else?”

Yes. A fucking lot of everything else.

“Why are we only ‘sort of’ safe?”

At that, Sam grimaces somewhat.

“The angels can’t track Dean anymore, because he’s closer to human than angel at the moment- and we will remedy that as soon as possible- but they can still track me. Finding a spell to cover my tracks and trace for long periods of time is basically impossible, so I’ve had to improvise some temporary solutions. I can’t stay much longer, because they’ll be able to follow me soon enough. I just needed to check in. Once I work out how to improve my shielding technique, I’ll be able to stay longer, but for now, I’ve really got to go.”

He looks over at Dean and tosses him a keychain. “There’s a car waiting outside. Black ’67 Chevy. Weapons in a false compartment under the trunk and wallets, credits cards, cash, and IDs in the glove compartment. Use cash whenever you can.” Sam hands Dean a piece of paper. “Go to this address and speak to a woman named Anna Milton.”

Dean’s eyes light up like someone set off fireworks in his head.

“ _The_ Anna Milton?” He asks, mouth agape.

“Yup. Don’t even ask me how they swung that one. She’ll help you really cover your tracks, because the angels will recruit foot soldiers before long, and soon enough, they’ll just start running credit card checks and playing detective.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Can’t track us with their creepy all seeing eye, but a couple of schmoes with a fake ID can have the entire country on our asses in less than an hour. Sometimes I think daddio chose the wrong favorites, Sammy.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “I don’t think dad has anything to do with this, Dean.”

“Whatever. Anything else we need to know?”

“Nope. I’ve really gotta go now, they’re wondering where I am.”

“Okay.”

They’ve fought the entire time Sam’s been here, save for their hug on the initial meeting, and the few minutes where Sam explained, out of breath, how he had followed Dean’s path out of heaven, but it was closing fast, and he barely got through, but Castiel can see how it kills Dean to let his little brother go.

“You watch your ass, okay Sammy? They know we’re close. They’re gonna try and find you.”

“I know, Dean. Heaven’s a big place. I can outrun them. Ash has been working on a few new sigils, so I can give them a test drive.”

“Friggin’ Ash… Tell him he better know what he’s doing, or I’ll cut off that damn mullet of his, y’hear me? Plus, he owes me a beer.”   

Sam laughs at Dean going mother bear on him, but Castiel can feel the worry and fear radiating from Dean beneath his angry surface. It’s what Castiel saw before Sam finally arrived.

Sam and Dean hug one more time, and Sam turns to look at Castiel.

“I’m sorry, I would warm you up, but using any more power than necessary would make it easier for them to zero in on you. Every time an angel manages to get their hands on you, it’s going to leave a mark, and marks like that can be traced. You can’t be hit, grabbed, or even brush by an angel. Even if, by some insane chance you meet an angel who’s willing to heal you, you can’t say yes. Healing leaves an extremely strong mark because of its constructive nature. Changing the human body, what god created in his eyes as the perfect form, is a powerful thing.

Besides, I think Dean can take care of warming you up on his own,” Sam says, grinning. Two seconds later, a balled up napkin bounces off his forehead.

“Bitch.” Dean says casually.

“Jerk,”

Sam walks past Dean to stand, tall and intimidating in front of Castiel. He extends a hand, and Castiel stares at it, a little too far gone to participate in everyday rituals from his own species. There’s been a lot to absorb today.

Sam awkwardly retrieves his hand, and Dean doesn’t admonish Castiel this time. Instead, he chuckles.

“He grows on you, Sam,” Dean assures his brother, and walks forward and clamps a hand on his shoulder.

“Again, you take care of yourself up there. Kick some ass when you have to, but otherwise, stay out of trouble.”

Sam nods.

“Never thought I’d see the day when my big brother told me to stay out of trouble, since you were the one always encouraging it.”

“Shut up. Be careful.” Dean squeezes Sam’s shoulder and lets go.

“I will.”

Sam’s eyes flicker down to Castiel again.

“Nice to meet you, Castiel. I’ll see you again.”

His gaze finds Dean’s one more time.

“One more thing… What does it feel like? To be completely cut off?”

Dean stares at his brother, then glances down at Castiel. It looks like he’s deciding on how to word something.

“Quiet.” He finally decides on. “It’s quiet.”

Sam nods, pained look on his face mixed with a fierce determination and even admiration. Castiel blinks, and he’s gone.

Dean stares at the space his brother occupied just a moment ago, shakes his head slightly, and bends down and pulls Castiel up by gripping handfuls of comforter.

“Ready for a road trip, Cas? You’re not taking that fucking blanket, though, because I’m pretty sure I’m gonna like this car, and the last thing I need is a spunk-covered 3-count thread sheet messing the interior up.”

***

Sam even left Dean some cassette tapes to listen to. Bless him.

***

Castiel doesn’t feel terrible that he forgot to ask up until this moment, but he figures he’ll ask anyways, just to get it over with.

“What about my parents?”

Dean doesn’t even take his eyes off the road.

“They’re safe. Protecting a place of dwelling is a lot easier than protecting a person.”

“What if they leave the dwelling?”

Dean purses his lips, mirth in his eyes.

“They’ve opted for an extended second honeymoon inside the bedroom. They’re not going anywhere any time soon.”

Castiel stares.

“Not sure who came up with that one, though I’d put money on Samandriel or Inias. Remind me to thank them next time I see them, and then slap them upside the head.”

The soft sounds of Led Zeppelin are drifting through the car, the heater is on full blast, and Castiel’s cheeks have turned pink with the warmth.

“I have school tomorrow,” He says, detached. It feels like a million years ago, even though they’ve only been on the road for a couple of hours.

Dean snorts.

“Sorry man, looks like that essay on the Crusades is gonna have to wait. We’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

Castiel doesn’t care. Not _really_. But as usual, when Dean’s around, he’s got his back up.

“Not to be ungrateful or anything, Dean, but you’ve quite thoroughly ruined my life since you’ve arrived in it.”

“Ah, c’mon Cas, don’t be melodramatic. Think of it an adventure.”

“An adventure.” Cas repeats flatly.

“Yeah. The Great American Road Trip. You and me, buddy.”

“While also being pursued by heaven’s angriest angels who for some reason want me dead,” Castiel adds.

Dean shrugs, though a muscle in his jaw jumps. “Too long of a title. I think we should just stick with mine.” Dean decides, turning up the music when _Ramble On_ starts playing.

Castiel should be mad. Castiel should be so furious that Dean completely uprooted his life without asking, that he now has multiple hits put out on him for corrupting an angel, that he’ll miss school and his home and his family- except.

Except.

Can you be that mad when there isn’t much of a life to uproot? Sure, Castiel has all those things. But does he want them? Does he need them? He thinks of his parents. Nice enough- after all, they raised his antisocial ass, and he knows that someone, somewhere, should give them an award for that. That’s all his parents are, though. The thing is, he never needed parental support. He doesn’t like touching and he doesn’t like feelings, and that’s usually what parents are there for. He doesn’t ask for advice, because he never got into situations that required him to need it. All he needed was a roof over his head and food to eat on occasion.

It’s selfish, he supposes. But he never claimed to be a Saint.

There’s also the more pressing matter of imminent death to worry about.

And the even more pressing matter of being cramped in an innumerable amount of small spaces with Dean over the next god knows how long.

***

“I wonder if Sam actually popped back in time to pick me up this baby mint,” Dean says about six hours later, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel along to a Led Zeppelin song.

Yes, they’re still listening to Zeppelin. Six hours later. Castiel hadn’t realized their discography was so extensive.

Castiel doesn’t respond to what Dean’s said, because he doesn’t think it’s directed at him.

“What do you think, Cas?” So it was directed at him.

“I know very little about cars.”

Dean’s eyebrows raise.

“Well now that’s just a sin, Cas, and I would know.” Dean says cheekily, tossing Castiel a quick smirk before bringing his eyes back to the road.

Castiel huffs. He’s still having trouble believing that this is actually happening. But more importantly, he’s having trouble believing how much he wants to enjoy what’s currently happening.

“I’ll teach you how to look after her,” Dean promises, patting the dashboard lovingly. “You’re a beautiful girl, aren’t you?” He coos at the machinery, like he’s talking to a baby or a puppy. Castiel snorts. Dean’s eyes snap to his, and Castiel can see somewhat of a challenge in them.

“Oh, so you think it’s weird I like talking to this car? At least I talk about my feelings with _something_. Cause, y’know, Cas, I don’t exactly like talking about feelings much, either, but you, man, you’re a whole other level of closed off, and that’s a pot calling the kettle black if it ever did. And let me tell you, it’s a pretty dark pot.”

Castiel keeps his mouth shut because fuck no, they are not talking about this. Castiel had assumed (wrongly, apparently) that whatever connection there was between him and Dean would go either unnoticed or unsaid between the two of them, but he feels like this is where the conversation is heading, and he is not in any way, shape, or form, going to help it get there.

Dean sighs and squints out the windshield, as if he’s looking into the sun, even though it’s a grey morning. He turns down the music a little, and Castiel involuntarily swallows. Dean hasn’t touched the volume since he turned it up all those miles back. Turning down the volume can only mean bad things for him and that sensation that’s been pulling somewhere behind his ribcage for the last couple weeks. He is not interested in this discussion, and he refuses to have it. He stares resolutely out the window, hoping he can ignore Dean into submission, and get him to lose himself in the music again.

“Cas…” He begins, and his voice is softer. “I’m sorry.”

Okay. So maybe not the direction Castiel was expecting the conversation to take. He raises his eyebrows slightly in a way he means to say, _go on_.

“I played it off earlier, but that was just cause it’s how I usually do things. I mean, I really did fuck up your life from the moment I landed in your backyard, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry you got attacked by that random ass ghost, I’m sorry I decided I liked you and kept hanging around to annoy you, I’m sorry I told you what I was, I’m sorry you’re in such danger now, and I’m just sorry, okay?” Dean didn’t look at Castiel during his confession, and Castiel can understand why. He doesn’t peg Dean as a person to apologize a lot, and he probably just maxed out his quota for about the next ten years.

Castiel isn’t good with apologies (giving or receiving them), just like he’s not good with compliments (giving or receiving), or just conversation in general, so he figures honesty is going to have to be his best ally in this case. Besides, Dean wants to talk about emotions? Fine. Castiel wonders where the marvels of emotional manipulation can take him this time. (But does it still count as manipulation if Castiel means everything he’s about to say?) Talk about muddy waters.

“I’m… not sure if you need to apologize at all, let alone that many times, Dean.” Castiel says carefully, because if he’s being honest (and it’s not something he’s looking forward to, or planning to become a regular occurrence) he’s not sure how feels about it yet, either. “Though I suppose you crashed into my backyard with no help from me, I could have easily told you to go away. I didn’t need to worry about you when you disappeared that first week. I didn’t need to go out to meet you on the field. I didn’t need to decide that I enjoyed spending time with you, and I most definitely didn’t need to enjoy the fact that we were-are- friends. But against my best wishes, my brain seems to have decided to like you and the rest of me just has to follow suit.”

Dean looks mildly gobsmacked, but reins himself in well enough to nod curtly.

“Well. I’m glad we’re already both trying to hog all the blame for ourselves.”

“I still blame you for crashing into my garden.”

“Bad aim, good results. I could just as easily have wound up in the passenger seat of a redneck’s 2x4 who sees showers as optional.”

“I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Good.”

They drive the next couple of hours in silence, and Castiel, for some reason, feels lighter.

***

Around noon, Castiel finally gets around to asking where they’re going. Dean tosses him a balled up piece of paper.

“We’re going to see the Real Deal.”

Castiel can hear the capital letters in Dean’s voice and cocks his head curiously. “The ‘Real Deal’?” He flattens out the piece of paper and reads, _Anna Milton, Grand Forks, North Dakota_ along with a local address.

“Yup. Anna Milton.” Dean pauses for a somewhat dramatic effect. “Or as we used to call her, Anael.”

His words don’t seem to have as much of an impact as he hopes, because Castiel doesn’t understand.

“I don’t understand,” He says.

“An angel, Cas. She used to be an angel.”

“Oh.” He thinks for a minute, letting this information digest.

“Used to be?” He finally prompts.

Dean chuckles, but Castiel hears admiration in it, too.

“Oh, man. See, I’ve been on earth a lot over the years, and let me tell you, I haven’t seen anyone like Anna in all my life. She’s older than me. Way older. Way more badass, too. Heaven with her was like trying to put a leash on a lion. She was fierce. She was way up there in the ranks, too, but that only gave her more of a chance to fight her superiors. They clashed over everything. She fought for what she believed in, and they threatened to kick her out every damn time she kicked up a fuss, but never followed through. So one day, after another blowout fight, she just packed her bags –metaphorically, anyways- and left.”

“Is she like you, then?” Castiel asks, still trying to fully understand. “Was she cut off from her powers as well? Is that why Sam sent us to her?”

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t think so. Anna wasn’t cut off. She tore her grace out and Fell. She’s human, now.”

Castiel studies Dean’s face. He’s obviously impressed with this Anael.

“Do you want to follow in her footsteps, Dean? Do you want to rip out your grace as well?” He asks quietly.

Dean whips his gaze to meet Castiel’s, and it’s almost panicked. “What? No way, man. I would never do that. I just- Anna rebelled. She didn’t like the way things were run, so she got out. She’s a poster child for teenaged angsty angels like me.” He grins. “Dude, Anna basically started the resistance on her own. I may not do anything as radical as her, but she’s a fucking inspiration.”

Castiel looks back out the window. They’re on some lonely back road in South Dakota, trees whipping by in a blur. The sky is still the flat grey it was a couple of hours ago, and once again he’s struck by the fact that outside of this car, a world is still going on. A world that has no idea about angels and ghosts and vessels and anything else. This is the real fringe. Castiel thought he was an outcast before, but this stuff, the supernatural and things that go bump in the night- now he’s stepping into tin-foil hat wearing territory.

Suddenly and somewhat inevitably, he assumes, he feels such a shocking stab of isolation that he’s clutching his stomach and doubling over, practically moaning in pain.

“Cas? Cas? Talk to me, man. What’s going on over there?” Dean is side-eyeing him, eyes wide and freaked.

Castiel puts both hands on the dashboard of the Impala, trying to steady himself. He takes deep breaths, in through his nose and out through his mouth.

“Just having another existential crisis is all. Go about your business,” He manages to choke out, bringing his elbows to his knees and resting his head in his hands. He likes the cool darkness of his eyelids and the pressing of his palms against them.

He figures it was justified, this attack. Even though he doesn’t like his home that much, it’s all he’s known for seventeen years, and being ripped from it is bound to take its toll on him. He thought he was as far removed from society as possible, and now, he finds there wasn’t only another town of crazy in the universe, but a whole other fucking continent of messed up shit, and he’s only now realizing it.

He’s seen this moment in movies before. The scene where the protagonist just snaps, and can’t handle what’s being thrown at them anymore. They lose it, freaking out and crying and finally putting their foot down. After that, they’re supposed to be good to go for the rest of the running time- they’ve accepted the crazy in the world and can deal. They’re supposed to put on their badass action faces and be the hero and save the day.

Castiel is under no assumptions that he’s going to save the day (or any day), much less being a hero, but he supposes he’s doing pretty well at having the freak out if his hyperventilation is anything to go by.

He doesn’t even realize Dean has pulled over until there’s a hand on his shoulder, and the engine has stopped running.

“Cas,” Dean says levelly, patient, squeezing Cas’s shoulder in what he assumes is supposed to be comfort.

Castiel slowly lifts his head out of his hands, stupidly proud that his face is dry. His red eyes meet Dean’s concerned ones.

“It’s to be expected,” Castiel insists, intent on defending what little dignity he has left. “This has been a lot to take in over a short period of time.”

Dean’s eyes soften further, and the gold flecks in his eyes turn liquid and warm. “I thought you were being Mr. Cool Guy about all this,” He chides gently, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Thought you were too chill to even be bothered by this stuff.” Dean’s only saying this to make Castiel realize how ridiculous his attempted façade was, Castiel knows. It’s basically Dean giving Castiel permission to be scared and dumb and _human_. It’s Dean being kind.

As soon as Castiel realizes that, he freezes up automatically. No one is allowed to look at him like this. If someone is kind to him, that means that he has to be kind back, and that’s just not what he does. He doesn’t know _how_ to be kind.

“I’m fine,” Castiel cuts out, voice raw and much sharper than he meant.

Dean stares at him, assessing, but all he says is “sure,” starts the car again, and brings his eyes back to the road in front of them.

***

Finally, _finally,_ they get to Anael’s home. Castiel didn’t think he could survive much longer in the cramped quarters with Dean- between the fighting and the looks and the connection, Castiel doesn’t know how he can expect to survive the next couple days –weeks, months, years?- on the road with Dean.

Dean pulls up in front of a nondescript apartment building, idles for a moment, and cuts the engine.

“We’re here.” He states needlessly.

It’s about half past three in the afternoon, and Castiel doesn’t know what he expected from an ex-angel, but an almost shitty apartment building probably wasn’t it.

“I still don’t understand what Sam expects us- you- to find here.”

Dean leans over Castiel to squint out the passenger side window. Castiel’s breath catches as Dean’s lapel tickles his chin. “I dunno, man. Advice? She can tell us how to get them off our trail, that’s for sure.”

“But then how did Sam know where she was?”

Dean pulls back and smirks at Castiel. “He’s Sam.”

Dean gets out of the car, and Castiel follows suit. He’s feeling pretty disgusting by this point, having just driven over ten hours with little sleep, no shower, and no food. That, plus the additional frustration of being in a cramped space with someone who straddles the line of annoying and excellent so finely that he may have been consciously doing it, has Castiel on high alert, despite his body’s sleepy protests for just the opposite.

“Dean.” Castiel says as they cross the street, hands deep in his pockets.

“Cas.” Dean replies vaguely, his mind obviously in the apartment they’re about to enter.

“I’m human.”

Dean stops in front of the doors of the building and stares at Castiel, face expectant.

“Yeah. So?” He starts searching for the call button to Anna’s apartment.

“So, as gung ho as I am for all this stuff, I still need to sleep. And eat. And shower.”

Dean finds the button he was looking for, and presses it for a couple seconds. When there’s no answer, Dean presses again, longer.

“I suppose,” Dean says, like there’s really a choice in the matter.

Castiel suppresses the urge to roll his eyes, and Dean presses the call button for a third time.

“For fuck’s sake…” He mumbles, jabbing at the button now.

Finally, a soft voice crackles out of the intercom.

“What do you want.”

Dean clears his throat, and Castiel can already see him trying to work the charm.

“My name is Dean, and my friend and I here-”

“I’m not buying anything.”

“That’s okay. We’re not selling anything.” Dean licks his lips and it looks like he’s considering something. “ _Anael_.” He adds pointedly.

There’s no response from the speaker, but there’s a buzz, and the front door unlocks. Dean grabs the door and ushers Castiel inside. They head right for the elevator, and Castiel can’t help but take in the grimy interior of the place. Apparently, when angels fall, they fall hard.

“I was going to say your name as a trigger,” Dean says as the elevator doors slide shut, and a _ding,_ signals their ascent. Anna’s apartment is on the third floor.

Castiel lifts a brow in a silent request for more information.

“You have the name of an angel, dude. And not even a common one like ‘Michael’ or ‘Gabriel’. It would have made her open the door.”

“But you didn’t,” Castiel says.

“Yeah. There’s power in a name, Cas. Power that can be traced. I’m thinking from here on out, you start introducing yourself as Cas.”

“But what about you? Can I still use your name?”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah. Like Sam explained at the motel, I’m pretty much cut off completely. Angels would love to get some tabs on me, but they’ve been boned by their own rules. Once someone is out, they’re out all the way. I can’t be traced. And it’s heaven, so it’s not like they can bend the rules- they’re pretty stuffy up there.”

“You said Anna’s real name,” Cas pointed out.

“Necessity. I don’t know how else we would have gotten in. I doubt she’s the type to buy Girl Scout cookies. Besides, I figured your name would be more of a hot potato than hers at the moment. She fell ages ago. Her fifteen minutes are up.”

“You could have pushed every button until someone let you in,” Cas suggests.

Dean snorts. “Could have. But I think the fewer people who know we were here, the better.”

Castiel nods like he’s absorbing all this, but it’s really only skimming the surface. He follows Dean out of the elevator once it stops, and they head to Anna’s apartment. Dean’s barely raised a fist to the door when it opens, a pale hand fists his shirt in its hand, and he’s yanked forcibly into the apartment.

“De-“ Castiel starts, before the same hand returns to his shirt, and he finds himself pulled into the apartment by a woman who is probably a good half foot shorter than him. He loses his balance and falls to the floor, already occupied by Dean. A door closes somewhere behind him, and Castiel gingerly gets up, dusting his clothes off. Dean follows suit, chuckling.

“I’m all for the horseplay, but a little warning would be nice.” He says with quite a lot of bravado for a guy who just got slammed into the linoleum floor by a skinny pale girl.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Anna hisses, knife in her hand. Dean stares at it glinting in the dim light, and laughs.

“That’s not even gonna give me a paper cut, sweetheart.”

Realization dawns in Anna’s eyes.

“Angel.” She says.

Dean half-shrugs.

“Sort of.”

She turns the knife on Castiel, and has it as his throat in less time than Castiel thought possible.

“He’s not an angel,” Anna hisses, pressing the blade into the soft flesh of Castiel’s throat. Castiel doesn’t fight, but the bottom just dropped out of his stomach. “I can still tell the difference.”

“Hey, hey, hey, we’re all friends here,” Dean assures her, his eyes contrasting with his easy countenance. His eyes are wild and nervous, and even a little awed. “Trust me, I know there’s no way in hell I could take you. I just want to talk.”

Anna stares at Dean, assessing. Castiel almost groans in relief when he feels the steel drop away from his throat. Anna pushes him back to Dean’s side, and he stumbles a bit.

“You’re an angel. But not.” She says to Dean. Then her gaze shifts to Castiel. “You’re human. But…” She cuts herself off, shakes her head as if she’s just come out of a reverie. “No. Nevermind. I don’t want to know any more than I have to. Why are you here? This is dangerous for everyone involved.”

Dean’s still got that awe in his eyes, and Castiel can’t help but be somewhat disgruntled by the fact that Dean is still so enamoured with the once-angel who was threatening to slit his throat not thirty seconds ago.

“I took a page out of your book and got my ass kicked out- though to be fair, I didn’t do it in as spectacular fashion as you, because let me tell you, that was pretty freakin’ awesome.”

“Your grace is still intact.” Anna states, not interested in the foreplay.

“Yep. Still kickin around in here somewhere.”

“How did you find me?”

“A friend.”

Panic sparks in Anna’s eyes.

“Who else knows where I am?”

“No, nothing like that. Trust me, this guy won’t gossip. He’s a bitch, but he’ll take your secret to the grave.” Dean assures her.

“We’re tossing around the word ‘trust’ a lot, especially since I met you about five minutes ago.”

“Yeah, well, apparently we don’t have much time. My friend here, I may have gotten him into a little bit of trouble.”

Anna spares Castiel a moment’s glance, and then turns her attention back to Dean. Castiel feels like he’s watching a movie, and Dean and Anna are alone on the screen, and he’s just an audience member. “What kind of trouble?”

“I assume it’s a paperwork error, because I guess the head honchos think Cas here ‘corrupted’ me. Now they’re out for blood. His, specifically.”

Anna’s brow furrows. “That makes no sense. They’ve never punished humans for an angel’s transgressions before.”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well, Cas here didn’t exactly corrupt me in any way, so I’m thinking angel air waves are a little wonky right now.”

“But still… there’s no reason they should be after him in the first place.”

Dean scrubs a hand over his stubble. “Yeah, so I dunno what’s what up there. I’ve got people working on it. For now, though, I think we got sent here because you can help us cloak ourselves on the road.”

Anna hesitates visibly.

“You don’t need cloaking since the angels already lost you.” She says to him.

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” Dean says, glancing at Castiel.

Anna follows Dean’s gaze, and the hesitation in her eyes grows.

“Cas,” She says slowly, like she’s puzzling something out, “I assume that’s a nickname?”

 “Yes. Short for-”

“Cas,” Dean cuts in. “Remember what we just talked about?”

Castiel shuts his mouth. “I’m named after an angel.” He says instead.

Something flashes in Anna’s eyes, and Castiel can’t tell if it’s shock or something else. She opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, then closes it with a click of teeth.

“Nope. Not getting involved in that.” She announces, turning her back on them and heading towards the small kitchen.

“Whoa, whoa, what the hell?” Dean asks, following Anna into the kitchen. “We need your help. Cas needs your help.”

Anna turns to Dean with big eyes, her brow furrowed. “What?”

Dean looks like he’s debating whether Anna is schizophrenic or just a bit slow. “Cas. He’s a human. You can give us a sigil or a spell or something, right?”

Anna laughs suddenly, but it’s a hollow sound. “I’m going to give you the sigil, Dean. It wasn’t that I was talking about,” She says cryptically, opening a drawer to find a pen and paper.

Dean looks like he’s about to ask just what the hell she’s talking about, when she hands him the paper. Castiel sees some complicated blue ink streaks, but they mean nothing to him.

“Brand him with it in some way,” Anna says, then seems to hesitate for a moment. “The more permanent, the better.” She finally says. 

“What does it actually do?” Castiel asks, somewhat grudgingly. If he’s going to have to be wearing this sigil for the rest of his life, he may as well find out how the thing works.

“It will cloak you, just like you asked.” Anna says, though there’s still something _more_ in her eyes. “But you still cannot be touched by an angel. It will hurt them, but once one grabs you, the power of the sigil is broken.”

Dean snorts. “You can’t give us a little more than a one hit wonder?”

Anna glares at him. “Cloaking a human is a delicate process, and a dangerous one.”

Dean holds up his hands. “Okay, okay. Look, if an angel touches Cas and we manage to get away, can we just draw the sigil again?”

Anna considers for a moment, leaning against the counter. As fast and lethal as she had been earlier, she looks pretty damn close to human now, all big eyes and red hair and a Radiohead t-shirt and jeans. Castiel thinks about Dean’s fashion choices and wonders if maybe heaven is just one long casual Friday.

“It won’t work for the angel that touched you,” She eventually concedes. “But I suppose it could still work on the other angels, though there’s nothing stopping the one that touched you from telling anyone else looking for you.”

“Better than nothing,” Dean says. “Wanna take a peek at your new tattoo, Cas?”

Castiel takes the paper Dean hands him and stares at it. It’s neatly drawn, and seems rather simple in design, though Castiel knows that it’s much more involved than his tiny human brain can handle.

“Won’t it hurt Dean, though? If he touches me?” Castiel blurts out as he realizes the potential flaw in the plan.

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Are you planning on me doing a lot of touching?”

Castiel realizes how it sounds, and immediately wants to disappear. He’s fairly sure he’s blushing.

“Christ, I’m just teasing, Cas.” Dean rolls his eyes. “Prude.” He adds as an afterthought.

Anna seems disinterested in this conversation, and only looks away from the window when she realizes it’s done. “I’ve incorporated Dean’s name in the sigil. It should protect both him and you from any adverse effects.”

“Besides,” Dean adds, “Not a full on angel anymore. Doubt the sigil would even bother getting it up for me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Anna says quietly. Castiel isn’t sure which part of Dean’s statement she’s referring to.

Dean chuckles. “Thanks for believing in me, sparky.” His voice turns serious. “Seriously, thanks.”

Anna nods. “I left the Host on my own decision. I’m glad you didn’t just blindly follow my example.”

“I dunno,” Dean shrugs playfully. “It was a pretty nice example to follow. I doubt anyone will ever top your exit, though. You set the bar pretty high.”

Anna remains serious. “You didn’t follow my example, Dean. You had your own reasons.” Her gaze flickers to Castiel and away so fast Castiel isn’t sure if he imagined it or not.

Dean grins in discomfort. “I didn’t actually leave, y’know. I got kicked out.”

“Whatever details you’d have altered, you would have ended up here,” Anna says.

Dean nods and licks his lips. “Uh, okay. Look, thanks again for the sigil, but we really should get going. Gotta get this thing inked onto Cas and… other stuff. Good luck.”

And with that, Dean is guiding Castiel out of the apartment with a hand on his back, and Castiel’s nerves are doing this weird thing where they simultaneously want to jerk away and lean into the touch.

Once the door closes behind them and they find themselves back in the elevator, Dean finally takes his hand off Castiel’s back and blows out a breath he was obviously holding.

“Seriously.” He says. Castiel looks at him curiously. “You should never meet your heroes.”

***

Castiel is basically a dead man walking when they finally check into a motel a couple blocks away from Anna’s flat. Dean pays the guy at the front desk in cash- they don’t want to leave a paper trail for when the angels decide to finally get some unsuspecting humans to do the legwork- and Castiel crashes onto the first bed he comes across.

Dean chuckles as he walks in behind Castiel and sees him sprawled on the bed.

“At least I still don’t have to sleep,” He comments, taking a seat on the bed opposite Castiel.

Dean is silent for a few minutes, shuffling around the room doing various things, and Castiel hears him open a desk drawer.

“Gotta find a tattoo parlour,” Dean says, mostly to himself. “Need to get you inked up as soon as possible.”

Castiel tenses on the bed, pulled away from sleep for the moment. He’s not afraid of the needle or anything- he has a pretty high pain tolerance. But actually getting this sigil etched onto his skin means that there’ll be something tangible about this whole experience. There will be physical proof that Castiel accidentally entered crazy town and took part in the festivities, and he has no desire to wear proof that he visited the gift shop on his way out.

“Um,” He finally ventures, voice muffled by the pillow his face is currently smushed into. He hears Dean start. Obviously he thought Castiel was out by now. “Maybe we shouldn’t be so hasty with the tattoo thing.”

He can hear the smirk on Dean’s face. “Aw, Cas, afraid of a needle or two? I’ll hold your hand if it gets to be too much.”

Castiel bristles, but continues in a monotone, “Anna said that if I get touched by an angel, the sigil will be broken and I’ll have to get a new one. I only have so much surface area of skin, Dean. If this goes on for much longer, I can only assume I’ll come into contact with other angels that aren’t you. I don’t want to have to get a new tattoo every time an angel touches me.”

“Huh,” Dean finally says after a moment of contemplation. “That’s a good point.” He chuckles. “I’m older than you by a crapload, and I never would have thought of that.”

“You are a man of extremes,” Castiel says from his pillow.

“And you are a man of means. We go well together.” Dean says, and Castiel tenses again, but not because of the prospect of a tattoo this time.

Neither of them say anything for another couple minutes, and Castiel has finally calmed down and is about to drift off again when the smell of permanent marker suddenly rears its ugly head.

“Ugh.”

Dean laughs. “Kids used to get high off sniffing markers. I tried it a couple times, but I guess tolerance as an angel made it a little more difficult. But now that I’m cut off…” He looks at the marker curiously. “Nah. I’m going to be adult about this and prioritize. Take off your shirt.” He commands, and yeah, Castiel tenses again.

“Uh.”

“I need to draw the sigil on you, idiot.” Dean explains like he’s talking to a two year old.

Castiel heaves a sigh, and his mind can’t helping casting back to the night that didn’t happen. He flips himself over on the bed, and scoots so he’s sitting with his back against the headboard. Dean raises his eyebrows.

“You want to do this there?”

Castiel’s cheeks are burning a bit, but he decides that he’s going to stand his ground- metaphorically, anyways, since he’s currently sitting. “Yes. I think for once I will make a decision in this friendship, and I suppose this is as good a place to start as- oh.”

Yeah, he really didn’t think this through, because Dean is currently straddling him, as there’s no other way for him to get a good enough vantage point to draw the sigil on.

“Oh.” He says again.

Dean smirks. “We’re doin’ this your way, Cas.”

“I didn’t-” Castiel cuts himself off because he has no idea what to say, and blood is rushing loudly in his ears and once _again_ he just has incompatible urges swelling up inside him, and he’s most definitely really scared and embarrassed and uncomfortable and he thinks about how mad Dean makes him at least once a day but how it’s more of a reaction than he’s given to anything for years and sometimes Dean makes him laugh too and  maybe he even manages to make Dean laugh every once in a while but that doesn’t change the fact that there’s suddenly enough heat coursing through his body that it’s like every nerve is a match that was just struck and he’s rambling in his head so badly and he doesn’t ramble as much around Dean and maybe that’s a good thing but it’s also a bad thing because if he’s not acting like himself then who’s he acting like and oh god maybe this isn’t a good idea of course it’s not a good idea it never is it’s-

And then Dean reaches out and draws a long stripe of permanent black marker down Castiel’s cheek, effectively shutting up Castiel’s mental tangent.

“You need to relax, Cas. Christ, I’m no mind reader but it looks like fuckin’ Times Square at rush hour in there.”

Castiel opens and shuts his mouth, unsure of what to say and unable to think of anything else but the position Dean is in on top of him. Funnily enough, the absolute novel of words he had in his mind a second ago have all disappeared.

Honestly, there’s at least four layers of clothing between them (assuming Dean’s wearing some form of underwear, of course, and Castiel knows that when it comes to Dean he should never assume things like that) and Castiel needs this stupid sigil on him.

“Why do I need to take my shirt off?” He manages to croak. Dean shifts slightly on top of him, sitting back on his heels, and Castiel almost cries at the loss of pressure at the same time his inner self wipes his forehead exaggeratedly in relief.

“Well if we put it on your arm or something, it’ll come off way too easy, permanent marker or not. They really should be sued for false advertising. I can draw it on your ass if you want, but I figured you’d be more comfortable with it on your chest, though I can’t imagine why.”

“Dean-”

“Oh for god’s sake, Cas, it’s more effective if I put it over your heart, okay? Jesus.”

Castiel shuts his eyes tight and nods.

“Oh-kay.” Dean says, glancing down at the piece of paper with the sigil on it. “Shirt off, and let’s get this party started.”

Castiel struggles to get his shirt off, and his head gets stuck in the neck hole rather embarrassingly. Dean chuckles and helps him tug it off, but the laugh dies in his throat when his eyes meet Castiel’s right after he throws the shirt somewhere off to the side. Castiel knows that his hair is probably going off in a hundred different directions, because that’s how it always looks when he takes his shirt off, but he isn’t exactly used to having another guy, angel, whatever, sitting on top of him while he does it.

Dean is staring at him with wide eyes, and his thoughts seem to be moving rather sluggishly.

“Shoulda brought that brush after all, huh?” He finally says weakly, clearing his throat before glancing down at the paper in his hand.

Castiel doesn’t say anything, because his heart is pounding like a hammer in his chest, and he doesn’t even think Dean will be able to draw the sigil properly because he’s fairly certain the spring in his heartbeat is enough to make Dean re-enact a scene from the classic “stop hitting yourself” game, ex-angel or not.

“Alright, Cas, I think I got it down well enough. Considering Enochian is my freakin’ first language I probably should fuckin’ know what I’m doing, but I really don’t want to mess it up and only find out after an angel is finished tearing you a new asshole.”

“Thanks for the concern.” At Dean’s eloquent phrasing, Castiel now finds his heart triple timing for two reasons; Dean’s proximity and the unfortunate prospect of more orifices.

Castiel’s hands have remained dutifully on the bedspread this whole time, but he feels his already cracked demeanor splinter even more when Dean moves up his body again and presses a hand right above his left pectoral. Castiel can see the smirk form in Dean’s eyes when he feels Castiel’s elevated heart rate pump in his chest.

But then Dean actually catches Castiel’s gaze, and he must see something there, because his demeanour completely changes. His eyes go soft around the edges, and his mouth loses its smug edge, only to be replaced by something tender and genuine.

“It’s okay, Cas,” He murmurs, his thumb making a single brush on Castiel’s chest. His other hand comes to rest on Castiel’s bare hip, and he works his fingers in feather light circles, soothing, but not overpowering. Every couple seconds, he switches up his tracing to more tapping movements that are a gentle staccato on his skin, maybe to the beat of his favorite Led Zeppelin song.

Briefly, Castiel thinks what he knows of desensitization. Repeated exposure to increasingly intense stimuli, allowing one to build up a tolerance for the action in question. He files that thought away for later, when he’s in a less emotionally charged position.

Castiel flutters a hand hesitantly across Dean’s hip, his movements slow and unsure. He can’t bring himself to reach out. Not now. Not yet. But the sudden light of _possibly_ dawns bright and clear in his mind, and it throws him a little, because the word isn’t accompanied by the gut-wrenching fear he’s come to associate with the thought of finding something to hold on to.

The absence of fear leaves him feeling off-kilter though, like he has an inner ear infection or something. Nothing to fear but fear itself, right?

The only question is, if that fear leaves for good, what does he have to replace it with?

A snapping noise breaks him of his reverie, and Dean, pen cap in mouth, swipes a hand over where he plans to draw the sigil on Castiel’s chest. It takes everything in him to repress a shudder. Dean’s hand leaves Castiel’s hip, coming to rest right in the center of his chest, bracing himself to start outlining the sigil. He shimmies up in Castiel’s lap a bit so he can get closer to his canvas, and presses the felt tip to his chest, starting to draw.

As the tip drags across Castiel’s skin, he can’t help but wonder what Dean’s fingers would feel like doing the same motion, or even, god forbid, his tongue.

Castiel feels his breath hitch at the thought, and Dean huffs out a laugh, breath blowing against Castiel’s chest. (And he will never ever admit that that was why his nipple hardened.)

“Dude, you gotta relax. It’s like trying to draw on a washing machine with all systems go. If I fuck this up I’m just going to have to start over again, and you only have one heart.”

Castiel takes a deep breath, trying to relax, and Dean resumes his drawing with renewed concentration.   

“You’re all good, Cas,” He promises, putting the finishing touches on the sigil with a flourish. “No angels are gonna gank your ass while I’m around.”

 “What if you’re not around?” Castiel’s mouth expels the words without his express permission, and he almost clamps a hand to his mouth in shock like a twelve year old girl, because damn did that come out a lot less stable than he would have hoped.

Green eyes shoot towards his, and hold the gaze.

“I’ll be around.”

Castiel nods curtly, as if his worries were merely detached curiosity, cheeks burning fiercely.

“I’m going to take a shower,” He announces, making a move to get up. Dean gets the message and climbs off his lap obligingly, but there’s a flash in his eyes that that unsettles Castiel.

“Make sure to give the sigil a few minutes to dry before you shower,” Dean advises coolly, back turned to Castiel and leafing through papers on the desk.

Castiel grunts to show that he heard, and the door is closed firmly behind him. He runs the tap and splashes cold water on his face to clear his head.

Fuck. Just when he’s starting to feel okay about something possibly happening, he has to go and let his guard down and bad bad words start to spill out. His stomach clenches when he thinks what might slip out if he lets his guard down again- or worse yet, slip in.

Fuck.

How do people do it? How do they do relationships and feelings and commitments? How do they manage and how do they know what they feel? Was there a memo Castiel missed? Did he miss that lesson at “how to function properly in society” school?

The storm of emotions churning in his gut gnaws at his stomach lining and chew on his already frayed nerves. It’s not enough to have to be running for his life. He has to be running from himself as well. It’s both melodramatic and very pathetic at the same time.

But the worst part is, it takes two to tango, and Castiel has no way of knowing if Dean is even dancing to the same song as him.

“Fuck,” Castiel sighs, and gets into the shower.

What he does in the shower, under the steaming water where no one can see him-especially not knowing green eyes- is his business and his business only.

***

“Feeling fresh as a daisy?” Dean asks from the bed- his bed-, television mutely playing a baseball game from the 80’s.

Castiel rubs a hand towel through his hair with one hand and closes the bathroom door behind him, holding the knotted towel at his waist up with the other.

“I only have one set of clothes,” Is his reply as he sits on the bed opposite Dean. Dean looks him up and down critically, eyes lingering on his torso for a moment longer than necessary.

“So it would seem. Alright, Slim Jim, let’s go hit up a thrift store.”

“I don’t have any clothes to wear at the moment, Dean. My shirt and jeans aren’t exactly in the best condition thanks to you and your bucket of ice this morning.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I save your life and you still bitch at me for getting you wet.” He stops after he realizes the double entendre and gives Castiel a sleazy, careless grin. “Gettin’ wet for me, Cas?”

Castiel rolls his eyes while trying not to think of his shenanigans in the shower. “I need clothes if we’re going out, Dean.”

“All right, all right,” Dean unbuttons his plaid shirt and tosses it to Castiel, revealing a simple black t-shirt underneath. “That should be okay for a little while.” He gets off the bed and grabs his leather coat from the back of a chair, staring at it for a moment as Castiel wrestles to get the plaid on after the initial grumbling. “Here,” He tosses the jacket to Castiel as well, who stumbles a little under its weight. It’s heavier than he thought.

“I don’t need this,” He says quietly, already feeling extremely weird wearing Dean’s too big shirt over the towel wrapped around his waist.

Dean seems almost embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand while gesticulating with the other. “Just wear it, Cas. It’s cold out and you just got out of the shower so I don’t want you turning into a Popsicle on me or something.”

Castiel isn’t sure what to say, because there’s a warmth pooling in his stomach and he doesn’t trust himself to open his mouth, so he just shuts up and shrugs on the jacket, getting the familiar whiff of leather he now associates with Dean. It’s too big on Dean, so it’s definitely too big on him. The sleeves fall past his fingertips, and one shoulder hangs off him tiredly, like he’s just gotten home from the office after an unusually stressful day.

He rubs the leather between his fingers, and it’s smooth and worn in. This jacket has been around for quite a while, Castiel assumes. A lot of memories must be associated with it, and he supposes that he’s just become one in a long line with no end in sight.

He feels the heat of Dean’s stare on him, and looks up. Something seems to be trying to work itself out of Dean’s mouth, but he just swallows visibly, clicks his throat, and grabs the keys before yanking the door open.

“Put on your pants and let’s go,” He says gruffly, slamming the door behind him. Castiel remains on the bed, somewhat befuddled, until the roar of the Impala’s engine stirs him to action.

***

The drive to the local thrift store is tense, and Dean fills the car with lots of loud Zeppelin. Castiel stares out the window, occasionally running his fingers across the sleeves of his borrowed jacket. It’s hot in the car, Dean having turned the old heater onto its max setting to counteract the frigidness of outside. It doesn’t do much to melt the tension between the two of them, however.

Dean pulls into the parking lot of the small plaza the thrift shop is in and turns off the engine, but leaves the heater on. He stops the tape, and stares out the windshield. Castiel is vaguely terrified.

“Dean,” He finally ventures, and Dean’s head snaps around at the sound of his name. Or maybe Castiel’s voice. Doesn’t really matter.

“Yeah, let’s go.” Dean shakes his head and opens the door, a freezing blast of air hitting Castiel smack in the face.

Castiel isn’t sure why he’s half relieved and half annoyed at Dean’s obvious deflection, but he supposes that would be the pot calling the kettle black (amazing, he thinks, how applicable that saying is to the both of them), so he just holds the jacket tighter around him, climbs out of the car, and follows Dean towards the lit-up store.

A little bell tinkles somewhere above them as Dean and Castiel enter the store. The small space is completely empty, and Castiel assumes the cashier is in the back somewhere.

“Okay,” Dean slaps a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and guides him over to the section with an alarming amount of plaid. “Let’s do this.”

Castiel starts searching the racks for things in his size- he doesn’t really care what it looks like, so long as it’s not too conspicuous, so he soon manages to find enough clothes to last him for at least another week.

“Am I really going to have to teach you how to use a Laundromat?” Dean asks like he’s offended. “C’mon man, I know you grew up in suburbia perfecta and everything, but really? Haven’t you ever washed your own clothes?”

At Castiel’s juxtaposed glare and helpless shrug, Dean huffs out a laugh. “I’ll teach you how to rough it, city boy,” He declares, now all smiles and bright eyes.

Castiel is wondering about emotional whiplash when he realizes that that’s probably all Dean has been feeling lately with his absurd game of almost touches and awkward refusals. It’s depressing to know now that Castiel has a potential something in his life, he’s also really good at giving mixed signals.

After piling all the stuff in Castiel’s arms, they make their way to the register, where a nice older woman with a name tag reading “Jane” scans the items through. Dean pays with cash and a charming smile, and the woman wishes him and Castiel a nice night as they make their exit. As the bell tinkles above them again on the way out, Castiel can’t help but turn around to try and find out where, exactly, the noise is coming from, because he can’t see a bell anywhere. What he does see, however, is Jane giving him an encouraging nod and smile as one last parting gift, her eyes flickering knowingly to Dean’s back.

Castiel barely manages a grimace in response, and they make their way back to the Impala in silence. Once in the cab again, Castiel reaches for one of the shirts in the bag, so he can give Dean back something to provide him with some semblance of warmth, but Dean shoots a hand out to stop him before he even pulls anything out.

“Don’t worry about it,” He says, seemingly non-chalantly as he peels out of the parking lot.

Castiel raises an eyebrow.

“I’m just giving your shirt back, Dean, now that I have my own.” He explains.

Dean clears his throat and shakes his head.

“Just keep it, if you want. I don’t care. Whatever.”

There it is again, that warm feeling pooling in Castiel’s stomach. Instead of dousing it with cold air and colder thoughts like he usually does, he decides to let it remain for the rest of the drive home, and he soon realizes that it’s that feeling that’s keeping him so warm and comfortable in the car, not the old and battered heater.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some case fic. Then something called Plot happens.

When Castiel wakes up the next morning, he realizes he doesn’t know what’s next on their agenda of running their asses away from the bad guys.

Dean is propped up against the headboard of the other bed, watching what looks like a Spanish soap opera on mute on the battered old television. He must feel Castiel’s eyes on him, though, because he flips off the television after a moment and, in the now dimly lit room, turns to face him expectantly.

“So what’s the next stop on this ‘Great American Road Trip?’” It’s hard to sarcastically fingerquote when laying down under bedclothes, but Castiel finds a way. He glances at the clock on the shared bedside table and stifles a groan. It’s 7:30 in the morning. Why the hell is he awake this early after the eternity that was yesterday?

Dean must read it in Castiel’s face, or be thinking the same thing, because all he says is, “Go back to sleep.”

Of course, at that insistence, Castiel sits up and rubs his eyes blearily.

“Dean. What’s our next move?” Castiel tries to demand, though it’s hard to sound assertive and intimidating when he’s still not sure if he won’t just fall back asleep midsentence.

Dean chuckles, low and throaty. “I didn’t think your voice could get any deeper, but I was obviously wrong. You sound like you just deep-throated gravel, man.”

“As a male teenager with a throbbing need to have my masculinity validated, I’ll take that as a compliment. Obviously, the embarrassment of seventh grade and it’s multitude of voice cracks was worth it in the end.” Good to know his sarcasm engines are up and running this early.

Dean snorts and turns back to the muted television.

Castiel is bone-tired, but it’s amazing what being on the run can do to kick start your system in the morning.

“Seriously, Dean. Just tell me the plan. “

This time, Dean actually turns off the television.

“I don’t know.” He admits quietly.

Castiel does a double take, because _what_?

“You don’t _know_?” he repeats, dumbly.

Dean scrubs his hands over his face.

“We didn’t have a lot of time to plan, okay? We got you out of your house, and that’s it. Sam didn’t even have time to mojo himself some cloaking sigils. We had to prioritize.”

Castiel refuses to think that he might actually register as a priority to Dean, and plows on.

“So, what, are we just going to live out of this motel room for however long until Sam shows up again?”

“Not exactly,” Dean hedges, treading carefully.

“Okay, then. Back to my original question. _What’s the plan?_ ”

Dean’s eyes meet his across the space between the beds, and he seems almost pleased when he announces, “We’re going to hunt.”

“What.”

“Hunt,” Dean repeats, like it’s the greatest idea in the world all of a sudden.

“Hunt,” Castiel repeats the repeat, blinking once. “Hunt as in Bambi hunt or hunt as in demons and monsters hunt?”

“Hunt,” Dean replies with an inflection that outright underlines the latter.

“Hunt,” Castiel says once again, complete disbelief plain in his face.

“Okay, we’re done using that word. Now it sounds weird. But yes. Me and you are gonna go kill some evil sons of bitches while we wait for Sam’s next info dump from Base One.”

A myriad of questions bubble up Castiel’s throat, and for some reason, the first one to escape is, “What the fuck are you on?”

Dean raises his eyebrows, surprised Castiel isn’t fully on board with his plan that came so far out of left field, Castiel is fairly sure he needed at least a Greyhound bus and two taxis to get anywhere near home plate.

Dean, obviously not sure how to respond to Castiel’s lack of enthusiasm, answers slowly.

“I dunno… What are _you_ on?”

Mechanically, Castiel pushes the covers off himself and stands up. Dean flinches, like he expects Castiel to come at him, but Castiel walks by him and grabs a pen and paper off the desk by the television, sits down, and starts to write. He can feel Dean’s eyes on his back, but he ignores him. The emotional whiplash of this trip- this whole fucking friendship, really- has had Castiel on edge since day one, and since he can’t really get out of it without getting smote by the god squad, he’s got to learn how to deal.

After a couple of minutes, Castiel silently treads back over to the beds, hands Dean the paper covered in his scratchy writing, and sits back on his own bed.

“Answer _all_ of them.” He demands, and this time, there’s no mistaking the command in his voice.

Dean is staring at the paper, somewhat disbelievingly, and mouthing the words as he reads.

_Proposal: Dean and Cas should hunt monsters and demons._

_Purpose: Distraction (???). Killing time._

_Problems: Cas doesn’t know how to hunt monsters or demons. The purpose of the overall mission is to not get Cas killed. This is a really dumb fucking idea._

_Questions for the Apparently Mentally Impaired (aka Dean):_

  * _Why the fuck should we do this?_
  * _How the fuck am I going to do this?_
  * _Won’t this draw attention to us?_
  * _Are you insane?_
  * _Are you insane?_
  * _ARE YOU INSANE?_



“So you have some issues you’d like to discuss with the class?” Dean asks lightly, flapping the paper in Castiel’s direction after he finishes reading it. His expression is tinged with amusement.

“Answer the questions,” Is the stony reply.

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Whatever. Okay, question one, why should we do this? Because it’s fun. It’s a good stress reliever, and damn, do you need to relieve some stress.”

Castiel bristles visibly at that. His life had been quite stress free up until the moment he met Dean, thank you very much.

“Question two, how are you going to do this? I’m going to teach you, dumbass. Trust me, nothing bad is gonna happen to you while I’m around.”

Castiel snorts because the whole reason bad things started happening to him is sitting on the bed opposite him. Dean obviously understands the gesture, because he at least has the grace to look the slightest bit sheepish.

“Question three, about drawing attention? Not if we’re smart about it. And, as much as your list here would like to imply otherwise, I am quite mentally competent. Besides, we’re cloaked. And do you think the angels are gonna expect us to be hunting? No. They’re gonna expect us to be running our sweet asses off. So really, this is the smartest plan of action.”

“As for questions four, five, and six, the answer is no… Well, I suppose that depends on your definition. For an angel? I guess I am insane, to not like heaven. To like being here and enjoy the hedonistic pleasures of humankind. For a human? I don’t think so. After all, humans like sex. I like sex. Humans like family. I like my family. Humans like Led Zeppelin. I like Led Zeppelin.”

Castiel decides to ignore most of Dean’s answers, because they seem to want to lead to a Talk with a capital T. Neither of them are good with Talks, so he figures the longer they put it off, the better.

“You know,” Castiel finally starts begrudgingly, “I’ve never even shot a BB gun.”

Dean laughs and claps a hand on his shoulder.

“That’s the spirit, dude.”

***

“… that was _not_ the right spirit, dude.” Dean informs Castiel just before he’s flung into the sky by the actual spirit they were supposed to burn. Castiel flies about fifty feet away before landing hard on the late autumn ground and skidding into a headstone with a solid thump.

“Oh shit.” Castiel hears Dean say, and then Dean is airborne, landing a few feet away from Castiel with no gravestone to stop his slide. Dean keeps going, and soon he’s sliding down the surprisingly steep slope for a graveyard, and Castiel yells his name before struggling to his feet. His tailbone hurts like a bitch.

It’s their first hunt together. It isn’t going well. The spirit is much more violent than what Dean had originally thought, and this “baby’s first salt’n’burn”, as Dean described it, has turned into an all-out brawl.

“Cas!” He hears Dean yell from the bottom of the hill- a hill in a graveyard, _really_? “Cas, you must have missed something! Get back to the hole and burn whatever the hell it is! And remember, watch the recoil!”

Castiel spies the simple handgun from the Impala’s trunk that he dropped at the gravesite, filled with rocksalt rounds. If he could get a shot off at the spirit, he might have enough time to burn the whole damn graveyard down. That would definitely solve the problem, even though Dean told him that they should be as inconspicuous as possible.

Castiel takes off, ignoring the ache in his back, and hopes the spirit needs a breather as well, though he doubts it. He needs to find whatever he missed, and find it fast. The ghost of Sara Fry is one mean bitch, and she needs to be put out of her misery as soon as possible.

Halfway back to the gravesite, she appears again, and tosses Castiel aside like he’s a stuffed doll. He’s slammed against yet another headstone, and says a silent prayer of thanks as he doesn’t hear too many ominous cracks.

He lets out a groan, and heaves himself up once again, gripping the headstone for support. He grabs a small flask out of the inside of his pocket and unscrews the top as quickly as possible. He’ll be ready next time Fry shows up again. His legs definitely aren’t interested in moving as fast anymore, but Castiel pushes forward regardless, gritting his teeth.

“You definitely are insane, Dean,” He mutters to himself as he reaches the gravesite. Of course, Fry chooses that moment to appear, and before she can chuck him again, Castiel manages to fling the liquid in the flask at her, and she shrieks before flickering out.

“Salt water, you bitch,” Castiel crows, screwing the top back on. Technically, just salt was needed to hurt spirits, but Castiel found that salt water was easier to fling during the intensive training Dean had given him over the past couple weeks. He even considered investing in a water gun, but hadn’t been able to find one small enough to hide in his jacket yet.

Castiel grabs the actual salt they left beside the open grave, and vigorously shakes more in, feeling sweat cling to him in a way that he’s sure he’ll never get used to. He grabs the gasoline and squirts copious amounts of that in as well, right before dropping his back up lighter into the mess. Once again, flames flare out of the grave, and Castiel is positive that everything inside that grave is currently burning.

“Dean!” Castiel calls out. “I think I got her. Everything’s burning.”

“Good,” Dean says, much closer than Castiel thought he would be. He’s weaving his way through the headstones, face cut up from the fall down the hill. “Sorry man, I didn’t realize I was choosing the heavyweight champion in ghost hunts when I picked this one. It seemed pretty stand-” And once again, because apparently that’s just how the universe works, Dean is flung away, and disappears behind a large stone angel monument.

Castiel curses, and turns a full 360. Fry isn’t anywhere to be seen. Apparently, playing invisible doesn’t do much to hinder her power, since Castiel finds himself being pushed face-first into the ground, his face mashing into the dirt.

“Oh, come on,” He manages to complain before he feels his head being yanked back by the scalp, exposing his neck to the cold night air. Of course. Sara Fry had been a crazy ass serial killer in the 60’s who liked slitting her victim’s throats with her abnormally long fingernails. It would only make sense (supernatural sense, anyways) that she would do the same thing in death.

The heat from the burning grave next to him is uncomfortably close, and Castiel’s eyes are watering because of it. His face is slammed back into the ground and he coughs on a mouthful of soil, choking in equal parts on air and dirt. He manages to get himself on all fours in between attempting to expel all dirt from his lungs, but he knows Fry is just playing with her food before she eats it.

Great. He’s going to get killed on his first hunt ever. He may be green when it comes to hunting, but even he knows that’s embarrassing as hell. Not only that, but until this angel business is cleared up, he can almost bet he won’t be welcomed with open arms at the pearly gates of heaven. Who knows, maybe hell is nice this time of year. Or purgatory. He could do purgatory.

It’s during those moments when he’s being typically mentally long-winded about things that he notices something he really should have noticed when they first started digging up Sara Fry’s grave, and something Dean, as a seasoned professional, really _really_ should have noticed.

“Dean, you stupid fuck!” Castiel shouts once he sees it.

A groggy “wha-?” floats from somewhere behind the angel statue.

“Sara Fry had a twin, you moron!”

“I- what?” Dean emerges from behind the statue, rubbing the back of his head.

“This gravestone-

_Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother:  
I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth_

They’re twins! Look at the name! This is Sera Fry’s grave, not Sara Fry’s grave!”

“Wait, so… the body in that grave-”

“Was the wrong twin.”

“Holy shit.” Dean smacks his palm to his face and groans. “Who the fuck names identical twins Sera and Sara? That’s just ridiculous.”

“Sara was a serial killer, Dean. I’m fairly certain her name was the least ridiculous thing about her.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Well then we need to get the hell out of here right now and find out where the right twin was buried. How did we not know she had a twin?”

They gather up all their supplies and start jogging out of the graveyard, not even bothering to refill the hole they’d dug earlier. With a pissed off spirit on their tail, they don’t really have much time to spare.

“If you had a serial killer as a sibling, wouldn’t you want to distance yourself as much as possible from them? Sera probably ran off as soon as she found out about what her sister did for a living.”

“Then why is she back here buried in the same town as her sister, smartass?” Dean asks as they chuck their bags into the backseat and climb into the relative safety of the Impala.

It’s Castiel’s turn to roll his eyes.

“I have no idea, Dean. After all, I was supposed to follow _your_ lead for this case, remember? So why don’t you tell me?”

Dean huffs and turns the key in the ignition, pointedly ignoring Castiel’s heated comment. Castiel doesn’t want to, but he feels contrite. While it is his first hunt ever, it’s also Dean’s first hunt with entirely human capabilities, and it can’t be easy for either of them. Dean’s pride is probably smarting more than Castiel’s bruised tailbone at the moment, anyways.

“Are you okay?” Castiel asks begrudgingly once they’re speeding away from the cemetery, because while he may feel contrite, that doesn’t mean Dean needs to know. He stares determinedly out the window, like he doesn’t care about the answer. He wonders if he could act like any more like a seventh grader.

“I’m fine, Cas,” Dean grits out, and Castiel figures it probably would have been better to not ask at all. After all, Dean’s not used someone getting the upper hand on him, so it must royally suck to be pulled off your pedestal so rapidly by some D-list ghost, and suck even more when someone else is around to see it.

“I don’t view you as any less of a powerful, menacing being of the cosmos than before, if that’s any consolation,” Castiel offers rather untruthfully. To be honest, it’s rather frightening to think that _this_ is his only immediate protection from any threat. Dean as an angel was intimidating when he wanted to be. Dean as a human whines and peacocks a lot, but is generally full of hot air when it comes right down to it.

And maybe it bothers Castiel a little bit that Dean is so obviously flailing without his abilities.

“Tell that to Sara Fry and my concussion,” Dean complains, rubbing his head again. “Man, why did I like humans again? Being human sucks.”

“It can’t be easy,” Castiel allows. “Though I’ve been human for seventeen years and I have to say, I may be somewhat biased.”

Dean scoffs. “I mean, when I had my tank full of mojo, I could still enjoy human things. I could eat and sleep- albeit in a different way- and have sex.”

Always the sex.

“But actually being as close to human as I’m ever gonna get? It feels… different.”

Castiel’s ears perk up at that, because hey, was that a feelings sighting? Not only that, but they aren’t even Castiel’s feelings, which means he’s all over it.

“Different how?”

Dean licks his lips as he glances at Castiel across the seat, then purses them as if trying to think of an adequate answer. Castiel feels his neck heat up and shifts in his seat.

“Raw. It’s like, sure, I liked all that stuff when I was an angel, but now? Dude, when I had a burger the other day, it was like an explosion in my mouth. It was just your run of the mill White Castle, but fuck, I’d never had a burger like that before. Except I‘d eaten White Castle a hundred times before, but that was my first time after being kicked out. It’s different now that I’m zapped out. More real, almost.”

Castiel nods like he understands, though there’s no way he really could. He was never an angel. But maybe he can relate to this somehow.

“You’re very hedonistic, Dean.”

“I’m what now?”

“Hedonistic. You seek out the physical pleasures of life.”

Dean considers for a moment, and only proves Castiel’s point by tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to a song that’s not playing and wetting his lips again.

“Yeah, I guess.”

Castiel nods, flexing his philosophy muscles. Sure, he never did any work in the class, but he still learned from it nonetheless.

“From what you’ve told me, angels sound much more ascetic. Those are pretty fundamental differences. I can see why humanity entices you. We are a very material species.”

Dean sighs. “I dunno, man. It’s just… I mean, realistically, humanity kind of sucks. A lot of you are assholes. I’m an angel, I’m supposed to be all gung ho for humans, and I am, I guess. I definitely know they deserve to be saved. But they really do kind of suck. And this isn’t a kettle calling the pot black, by the way. I know angels have got their issues as well. Every fucking species has their problems, but not every species has opposable thumbs and can tie cherry stems into knots with their tongue…”

“No offense taken, of course.” Castiel supplies after Dean seems to lose himself in the thought of cherry stems tied into knots.

“Yeah, exactly.”

They drive back to the motel in silence, and Castiel vaguely wonders if there’s a farmer’s market anywhere in this town.

***

“Okay, Sera and Sara Fry. Bitch One and Bitch Two,” Dean announces from across the motel room a couple hours later. “I had to dig pretty deep to find this.”

Castiel watches intently as Dean turns the laptop around to show him what he’s found. A grainy picture of two girls in 50’s garb, one smiley and sunny, and the other dower and glaring. They’re standing in front of a typical suburban home, and wow, things in the suburbs haven’t changed much since those days. Maybe that’s why Castiel feels his insides clench at the sight. It’s not homesickness, because back on that block, that wasn’t really his home. But it’s familiar, and Castiel can rebel against being a mature adult all he wants, but there’s something to be said about stability. Nothing about this new life is stable. It’s upside down and sideways and all ways at once. The tug is unsettling, and Castiel files it far back in his mind in some dark, dank corner he reserves for thoughts like these.

“Go on,” Dean urges. “Guess which one is gonna grow up without a nail clipper.”

Castiel feels like he knows where this is going, but he plays along anyways.

“That one,” He answers, pointing to the dower girl.

“Nope,” Dean says smugly. “See, evil serial killer Sara was the other one. The happy one. Normal Sera, other non-serial killer Sera was manic depressive. She offed herself in ’59, when she was eighteen. So maybe normal Sera wasn’t so normal.”

“Anything else?” Castiel asks, knowing there is, but figuring Dean will appreciate the participation.

 “Yep.” Dean clicks out of the zoomed in picture, and Castiel sees an archived newspaper headline from April of 1959 appear, discussing the ‘mysterious’ death of Sera Fry.

“So Sera was buried years before her sister?” Castiel clarifies, feeling the puzzle coming together.

“That’s right,” Dean drawls, turning the laptop back to face him. “Reading between the lines, it looks like Crazy Sara and Depressed Sera were actually pretty close. So, even though the articles about Crazy Sara’s murder sprees never mention her sister, how much do you wanna bet the death of Depressed Sera turned Crazy Sara into, well… Crazier Sara?”

Castiel nods slowly. “It’s convoluted, but makes enough sense.”

“What I find interesting, actually, Cas,” Dean says in a voice that sounds a little too casual, “is the fact that you automatically assumed the sisters hated each other.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “So?”

“So,” Dean echoes with emphasis, “Is that how you feel about the idea of family in general? Or just your own family?”

Castiel opens his mouth, but he’s not sure what to say to that.

“I never said they hated each other,” Is the only thing he can manage.

“I read between the lines.”

Surprised as he is that Dean made the connection, Castiel feels a flash of anger at the accusation, most likely because Dean hit the mark pretty close.

“I don’t really have much of a family, Dean.”

“Cas, your freakin’ mailbox has ‘The Novak’s’ written on it. They’re your family.”

“No. They aren’t.” Castiel sets his jaw and crosses his arms. Just because he’s okay with himself being one of the worst human beings alive doesn’t mean he has to share this information with anyone else.

“How can they not be? Dude, they’re your parents. They raised you. Don’t you have an obligation to love them or something?”

Castiel sighs and rubs at his forehead in frustration.

“That’s exactly the point, Dean! It’s an obligation! I don’t want to be obligated to love anyone. Not to get too mushy or anything, but don’t you think that takes away from love that doesn’t come with obligations?”

Dean thinks for a moment, and then shakes his head slowly.

“Man, you and I have pretty different views on family then. My family? There’s tons of them. In my head all the time- well, _were_ in my head all the time but you get the point. But see, there’s my family and then there’s my Family. My dad and mom, who aren’t, y’know, my biological dad and mom in the human sense but close enough.”

“And Sam,” Castiel says.

“And Sam.” Dean finishes. “Look, my family can be dicks. There’s no denying that. But they’re my _family_.” Dean shrugs. “I guess I don’t really need much more of an excuse than that.”

Castiel chews on his tongue, unsure of what to say. He can’t exactly understand Dean’s situation, but he thinks it must be exhausting, to have to give and receive so much love constantly. (Though because of their Witness Protection they’ve got going, Dean’s been pretty short on the love front lately, and Castiel is just starting to realize how hard that must be for him.)

Castiel just can’t bring himself to care about his blood. He’s never really seen the point of political or geographical borders, so he supposes it makes sense biological borders don’t register with him either. The fact that he holds no feelings for his parents but the detached sort of fondness a scientist might hold for their lab rat makes Castiel’s insides go cold. Sure, he can feel bad about feeling nothing, but he can’t bring himself to feel good about his parents. How fucked up is that?

“Can we just- can we just talk about the case?” It’s not a smooth segueway, but Castiel doesn’t really give a damn. All this talk of family and obligation are making him feel queasy, and what’s making him feel even queasier is that fact that he now knows- almost knows, does it really matter?- what family is actually supposed to feel like, thanks to the person sitting next to him. (Also his kidnapper, life ruiner, angel best friend, so there’s that to add to his list of subjects to bring up in therapy when he’s thirty.)

When there’s a swirl of emotions stirring up the dust in Castiel’s barren mind like this, he remembers why being apathetic used to be so delightfully easy.

***

They’ve definitely got the right grave this time. Castiel watches in relief as the flames lick towards the disturbingly light sky.

“Someone might walk by and see us, Dean,” Castiel feels the need to remind the angel, trying not to notice how the fire’s light softens his face in the early morning hues of periwinkle and rose that color the horizon.

Dean makes a disgruntled grunt and flaps his hand in Castiel’s direction, dismissing him. “We’ll be fine.”

It took them three separate graveyards, but they eventually found it. Using some impressive cross-referencing techniques Castiel assumed you needed to be an angel to possess, Dean was able to keep the search relatively short. Finally, they had stumbled upon Sara Fry’s grave, dug as quickly as possible (first Dean, then Cas), salted, added accelerant, and lit her up. No spirits, no opposition or resistance. It was strange, and Castiel was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

It never did.

“Huh,” Dean finally said as they were walking back to the Impala, gear in tow.

“What?”

“Sara Fry, crazy bitch that she was, didn’t bother to protect her own remains. She protected her sister’s.”

“I suppose.”

“Guess that’s family for you,” Dean says a little too casually, and walks a bit faster, ahead of Castiel.

Castiel feels like an ass.

***

Castiel is dreaming. Castiel _knows_ that he’s dreaming. Which is weird. He’s not one for lucid dreaming.

He’s standing in some sort of fancy room, walls painted white with gold trim and lots of old paintings. There’s a large white table in the middle of the room, and a giant fireplace off to one side. Castiel walks forward cautiously, running his fingertips over the table’s surface. It feels solid enough.

“Sorry,” says a voice, and Castiel whirls around, heart pounding in his throat. Before him stands what looks like your typical sleazy, middle-management corporate douchebag, balding on top, smug grin sitting a little too comfortably on his face. “Usually, we fill that table with whatever a guest likes. Makes them feel safe, comfortable.” He pauses, and his smirk grows more pronounced, eyes flashing. “But you, dear _Castiel_ , don’t seem to like much of anything…” He swipes a finger along the tabletop, and it comes away clean. “Except Dean, loathe as you are to admit it. Unfortunately, angelic vessels can’t be replicated. The red tape will get you every time.” He chuckles good naturedly, though something cold and slimy crawls down Castiel’s spine at the sound. “I’m Zachariah.”

Castiel stares, wide eyed, silently cursing his newfound inability to speak. Zachariah’s grin widens, and that cold tendril of fear now wraps itself around Castiel’s insides, squeezing.

Zachariah’s whole face lights up, and Castiel’s stomach flips. “Ah, yes. You may have noticed the fact that you can’t talk yourself out of this situation. Mm. Perks of dreamwalking with an archangel, I suppose- not that I’m bragging.” Zachariah pulls what disturbingly looks like an “aw, shucks,” look before adding, “All your barriers are down. Those walls you put up in the real world? Foundations on pretty shaky ground, my friend. It was the easiest thing in the world to shuffle those little tectonic plates inside your brain enough for it all to come tumbling down.” He extends his hands from his sides in a gesture Castiel assumes is supposed to communicate friendliness.

“You’re an angel?” He finally manages to get out.

“Yep. Like Dean, but better. Bigger. Though I suppose Dean’s not much of anything these days, is he?”

“How did you find me?”

Zachariah’s jawline clenches at that.

“We haven’t technically found you. We’re just chatting, Castiel. Inside your head.”

Castiel takes a step back, his sense of forbidding growing. While he’s in here, he may as well try to set things straight.

“Look, I know you think I corrupted Dean, but I didn’t. Whatever you think we did, we didn’t do. I swear. We’re friends. Just. Friends.”

It’s hilarious how that word still sounds more foreign to Castiel than words like “ghost” and “angel”.

Zachariah regards Castiel with raised eyebrows and amusement all over his face.

“Well now, is that what Dean told you? Precious. That boy projects more than a double feature at a midnight drive in.”

“What?!” Castiel’s voice is edging much closer to hysteria then he cares to tread, but the emotional surround sound or whatever state he’s currently in is completely messing with his abilities to snark his way out of this.

Zachariah tuts.

“Castiel, please. You think we want you for corrupting an angel? Dean has lain with so many people in so many different positions, hair styles, and time periods, it would hardly be because of _you_ that we’d finally draw the line.”

There’s that hot, boiling feeling balling up in Castiel’s stomach again. Awesome. Now is not the time for… whatever that feeling is.

“Then what do you want me for?”

Zachariah smiles knowingly, then touches his index finger to his nose, like he’s signalling Castiel.

“You’ll know soon enough, Castiel. We’re just waiting for it.”

“Waiting for what?”

But Zachariah is gone and Castiel is awake and laying in one of the spare beds of the motel room, arm outstretched in front of him like he was reaching out to something.

Well.

***

“Why the fuck would Zachariah show up just to peacock around in my head?” Castiel wonders aloud after telling Dean about his dream. “What does he have to gain from that?”

Dean is pacing in front of him, brow furrowed in concentration. Castiel is leaning back in the desk chair, but far from relaxed.

“So this Zachariah,” Castiel says after a few moments of silence. “He’s the one who kicked you out in the first place?”

“Yep.”

Castiel thinks of Zachariah’s words about Dean and projecting. He’d left that part out of the recap.

“Dean… are you _sure_ you got kicked out of heaven because I ‘corrupted’ you?”

Dean stops pacing, and, bewilderingly, a flush creeps up his neck.

“There’s no other reason for them to do it,” Dean says carefully, pointedly not looking at Castiel. “Why? Did, uh, did Zach say something?”

Castiel considers his options. He could lie, sure, but where would that really get them? If Dean is actually mistaken, and something else is at play here, then they need all cards on the table.

“It’s just, Zachariah seemed to think differently. He said that you were projecting.”

Dean is stock still, and for a moment, Castiel thinks he’s stopped breathing. Then, in a flurry of movement, he’s pacing double time. At this rate, there’ll be tracks in the floor before the day is over.

“They mess with your head, Cas. That’s what angels do.” He grounds out. Castiel can practically hear the teeth gnashing from his seat.

“Dean, I’m going to need you to cut your bullshit and just tell me if something’s wrong.”

Sympathetic ear he is not, Castiel isn’t willing to play games if it means Dean’s holding information from him. Dean stares at him, eyes wide, and Castiel can see the cogs turning.

“Dean-” He starts warningly, and then suddenly Sam’s in the room with them, tumbling forward onto Dean’s bed. He lands with a muffled _oof_ , and a worrying crack from the bed frame. Castiel is glad it’s Dean’s bed.

“Sam!” Dean rushes forward to pull his baby brother off the bed. When Sam is right way up, Dean gathers him in a tight embrace, before pulling away and dusting off his brother’s jacket.

“Dude. What the hell?”

Sam sighs and sits back down on the bed.

“It’s fucking chaos up there, man. Zachariah’s going nuts looking for-” Sam pauses and gives Dean an appraising look. “They aren’t looking for you, Dean, not really,” Sam continues like he’s reciting a recipe for his grandmother with bad eyes but doesn’t really understand it. “They’re looking for you.” All eyes turn to Castiel. A block of ice is sitting somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach.

“Why?” He croaks out, throat suddenly gone dry. That ice in his stomach must have sucked all the moisture from his mouth.

Sam opens his mouth as if to say something, but Dean shuts him up with a raised hand.

“Just- just hold on a sec from the earth shattering revelations. Sam, tell me you’re okay. Tell me you haven’t run into any of Zachariah’s mooks upstairs.”

Sam shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m fine. Didn’t have to kill any, at least. Could give ‘em the slip most of the time, and when I couldn’t, I just blasted them to Azerbaijan with a new sigil I cooked up.”

Pride glows in Dean’s eyes as he claps Sam on the shoulder. “That’s my Sammy.”

Sam shrugs Dean’s hand off with typical little brother embarrassment and a muttered “ _Dean_ ,”, and Castiel almost finds himself smiling at the familial scene in front of him.

The mood quickly turns sour, however, when Sam continues with his update.

“It wasn’t just Zachariah’s guys I had to avoid, Dean.”

There’s a shoe about to drop. Castiel can feel it like a farmer feels a rainstorm coming in his big toe.

Dean must feel it too, because he pinches the bridge of his nose, and a clipped “Who else?” slips out.

Sam runs a hand through his hair and sighs, as if he’s already resigned to this whole bizarre shebang- which he probably is, Castiel realizes, since he’s been running his ass around heaven while trying to solve all their problems for them, fending off various goons the whole time.

“Yeah, so, along with Zachariah’s men? I’ve had tails from Michael, Uriel, and Raphael as well.”

In the silence that follows, you could hear a pin drop.

It’s Castiel who finally breaks it, because Dean seems incapable of speaking, and Sam’s just looking at everyone with sympathetic eyes. Which is funny, considering how Sam’s spent the last couple of weeks.

“Other angels, I’m guessing?”

Dean gives a hollow laugh.

“Try other _archangels_.” He corrects, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “What the _fuck_ is going on here, Sammy?”

Sam shakes his head, mouth turning down at the corners. “No idea. Not yet, anyways.”

“But… I thought… Are all these archangels looking for me? And what exactly is an archangel compared to a regular angel? And perhaps the most important question, why the fuck am I being targeted by archangels?”

Castiel’s voice had gotten a little too high with nerves during his questions, and somehow, Dean had managed to situate himself beside Castiel without him noticing. He almost jumps out of his skin when Dean’s hand presses lightly to the small of his back, and with a shock, he realizes Dean’s _comforting_ him. What’s even more frightening is that fact that it works, and Castiel finds himself melting into the touch.

Sam casts a look between the two of them, but says nothing.

“We’ll figure it out, Cas,” Dean says quietly, and the pressure on Castiel’s back increases just the slightest bit.

“ _But_ ,” Sam cuts in, “To answer your questions, Castiel, yes, all the archangels are looking for you. But don’t worry. They won’t find you. The most they can do is dreamwalk you. Dreamwalking is when-”

Dean silences Sam with a look.

“He’s already been zapped,” Dean announces.

“Really?” Sam’s eyes are wide. “By who? When?”

“Zachariah. This morning.”

“Brilliant. Did you learn anything important?”

Dean and Castiel share a quick look, and then Castiel coughs and says, “No. Nothing.”

Sam gives them another look, but once again doesn’t say anything.

“Okay then.” He claps his hands together with very little enthusiasm. “A quick lesson in archangels. Chapter one: they-”

“Suck.” Dean chimes in. “They really suck. And they’re pricks.”

Sam clears his throat pointedly.

“Anyways, archangels are like… the generals, I guess. If you thought of heaven like an army-”

“Which you totally should,” Dean once again cuts in with no small amount of bitterness.

“Then archangels would basically be the ones leading the charge,” Sam finishes. “According to lore, there’s six archangels. In no particular order, that would be Zachariah, Uriel, Michael, Raphael, Balthazar, and Gabriel. Currently, you’re wanted by two thirds of some of the most powerful beings in the cosmos.”

Castiel’s stomach sinks down to his shoes. Dean’s hand is gone from his back, and he’s pacing again.

“Are you connected to the archangels like you’re connected to the other angels?” Castiel directs his question at Sam, since Dean isn’t exactly in a state to answer it.

“No.” Sam answers simply. “The archangels themselves are linked, but not to us. They have their own wavelength.”

“What about Balthazar and Gabriel?” Dean asks. “Any signs of them coming after you?”

Sam shakes his head. “But that doesn’t really surprise me.”

“And why not?” Dean asks.

Sam barks out a laugh. “ _Seriously_ , Dean? Did you ever pay attention in school?”

Castiel’s ears perk up at that. Angel school?

Dean rolls his eyes. “Just cut to the chase, Samantha.”

Sam snorts, but complies. “Okay so, years ago, according to lore, Gabriel took off. Just- vanished from heaven. The other archangels were pissed. Pissed beyond belief. They spent years searching for Gabriel, and never found him. Rumour has it he’s still kicking around on earth somewhere, but no one knows where. Then, once the archangels gave up the hot pursuit of Gabriel, Balthazar vanished too. Following in his brother’s footsteps is the best bet. So now, out of the six archangels, only four are still flitting around heaven. The other two, if the history books can be believed, have been on earth for the last couple millennia.”

“So they’ll be of no help,” Dean says at the same time Cas says, “How do we find them?”

They turn to stare at each other. Sam stares at both of them.

“Okay, look, I figure I have a higher stake in this than either of you two. This is my ass on the line. We need all the help we can get, right? Obviously Gabriel and Balthazar don’t like the other archangels that much, so maybe we can rally them to our cause.” He looks expectantly at Sam, since Dean doesn’t seem too keen on the whole plan.

Sam’s eyebrows come together and Castiel can see him thinking.

“I’m not sure… I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” He admits. “It’s an interesting idea.”

“Whoa there, cowboy,” Dean says, putting out two hands, palms out. “Let’s slow down for a second and think this through. First thing’s first, though? You don’t have a higher stake in this than us. I’m with you all the way. Second, these aren’t just normal friggin’ angels we’d be messing with. These are _archangels_. Y’know, heaven’s most fearful weapon and all that jazz?”

“Isn’t that the point?” Castiel asks. “If we have four archangels on our trail, our only retaliation could be other archangels, right?” He considers. “Unless there are things more powerful than archangels?”

Sam has his head inclined, looking at Castiel with more interest than he ever has.

“There aren’t many things,” Sam says slowly, like he’s puzzling out his thoughts. “Lucifer, I suppose. He’s kind of an archangel, but he was the first so I don’t think he’s really counted in the official number.”

“Lucifer is real? He was the first angel?” Castiel asks, agog.

Sam nods grimly. “Yep. First angel, and look what happened to him.”

“First angel becomes the devil. That’s…”

“Terrible? Hilarious? Depressing? Awful? Ironic? Pick an adjective. They all fit.” Dean says bitterly.

“Reign in the daddy issues, Dean.” Sam cautions.

“Can’t have daddy issues if there’s no daddy in the first place.”

Castiel thinks back to weeks ago, one of the first conversations he and Dean had about religion. Castiel had asked if there was a god. Dean had told him to believe whatever he wanted. They had moved away from that topic pretty quickly, but Castiel understands now.

“You’re an atheistic angel,” Castiel states, more out of shock than any want to express the thought out loud.

“Yep. As far as I’m concerned, god can stick it where the sun don’t shine.” Dean says in a monotone, though Castiel knows Dean well enough by now to feel the emotion bubbling away beneath the surface. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel notices Sam flinch when Dean insults the big kahuna, as if he’s expecting to be smited on the spot.

“Anyways, back to actual things that can help us with our problem,” Dean continues, his face hard and unyielding. Castiel sense some major issues here, so he immediately takes a metaphorical step back. Sure, he could _try_ to offer comfort to Dean like Dean offered him just minutes ago, but Castiel can’t bring himself to do it.

Sam rolls his eyes, but there’s a sympathetic set to his mouth that underlines the gesture. Castiel figures Sam and Dean have had conversations about “daddy issues” many many times, and those conversations have resolved very little.

“Okay,” He continues to puzzle out, “things that are stronger than archangels. Lucifer, Death, God-” Dean snorts at that, and Sam makes a face at him.

“Oh, you got any better ideas?”

Dean puts a finger to his chin in mock thought.

“Um, yeah, it’s called _running our asses away_.”

 Sam scoffs at that, and even Castiel raises an eyebrow.

“Uh, Castiel, do you mind if I talk to my bother in private for a minute?” Sam asks, tight lipped, and Castiel nods and leaves the room. As soon as the door closes behind him, he can hear Sam’s muffled voice, but it’s not the yelling Castiel expected. It sounds almost gentle, sympathetic. And then Dean responds loudly, defensively, explosively, and Castiel shakes his head and heads to the soda machine, hands in his pockets. It’s November, and his breath fogs in the crisp air.

He sits on a wooden bench that looks like it’s been around for way too long, and sighs.

The sky is grey again today, and Castiel can’t help but think of how oppressive it feels. He remembers just a couple weeks ago when he looked up at the grey sky and thought of its immense possibilities, both near and far. But now, he just feels small, trapped like a caged animal. It’s stifling, this feeling. Being chased by beings infinitely more powerful than him, all choice stripped away to just one, basic instinct: survive.

It isn’t just that that’s giving him cabin fever, though. In fact, that’s probably not even the main reason that his skin currently feels too tight and there’s always a dull ache throbbing somewhere in his chest, reverberating around the empty chasm like a pebble thrown into the Grand Canyon. There’s something else, and he still, even after all this time, refuses to name it. Because to name something gives it power, and he knows that this thing must be as powerless as possible, or it will consume him.

He almost laughs at the idea that this kind of feeling is considered pleasant to most people. Who likes the idea of falling? Falling means that eventually, you’ll hit the ground. And if you fell in the first place, how are you supposed to get back up again?

No. Castiel likes flying.

But this feels like falling.

***

Castiel doesn’t know how long it’s been since Sam asked for him to leave the room, but he only realizes how cold he actually is when Dean sits on the bench next to him.

“Jesus, Cas, take a coat why don’t you?” Dean admonishes as he takes his own leather jacket off and drapes it around Castiel’s shoulders.

“I didn’t realize your domestic with Sam would take so long,” Castiel bites out. The jacket is warm with Dean’s body heat, and Castiel leans into it.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Sam is in major bitch mode. It’s even worse when he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. But on to more important things,” He pokes Castiel in the shoulder. “What is it with you and the cold?” It’s said jokingly, but Castiel shivers. “I mean, it’s like you attract goosebumps wherever you go.”

“If you recall, the cold only entered my life when you did,” Castiel says unthinkingly. At Dean’s blanch, he realizes what he just said.

Oops.

“I didn’t-” He starts, but Dean waves him off with a careless hand.

“You’re right.” He says simply, looking for all the word like he wants to jam his hands in his coat pockets, but can’t because it’s currently draped around Castiel’s smaller frame.

There’s an awkward silence, and Castiel hates it. He hates feeling this way, hates this ever present _tension_ , hates that he’s running for his life, hates the resentment he feels towards himself, towards Dean, towards everyone. He hates it all.

And that must be it. That must be the fire roaring in his stomach, the heat churning in his gut. It’s hate. Because it’s definitely not anything else.

It must be that feeling that has him suddenly kissing Dean with every fibre of his being, trying to find something to quench the flames he feels burning away at his insides.

Dean makes a muffled, surprised noise, and Castiel increases the pressure, putting one hand behind Dean’s head, and pushing himself off the bench with the other one so that he’s currently straddling Dean on a random bench in extremely revealing daylight in a half-full motel parking lot.

But he really doesn’t give a shit, because the fire in his belly has changed, turned into a pulsing, slow burn. More importantly, the fire isn’t burning just in him anymore, but he can feel it roaring inside Dean as well. It lessens the pain somewhat, dulls the hatred that had threatened to consume Castiel, and Castiel follows that feeling all the way to Dean’s lips, Dean’s cheeks, Dean’s jaw, Dean’s neck.

While he’s doing this half out of his head, Castiel can lock away everything else. All the doubts, all the anger and fear that’s been his constant companion since this whole mess started, all the isolation from long before this ordeal. It’s just an echo of an echo, faded into grey matter that Castiel doesn’t care about at all right now. All he cares about is the roll of his hips into Dean’s, the hot press of tongues in the cold November air.

Castiel doesn’t have a lot of experience. In fact, he has none. Dean either doesn’t notice, doesn’t care, or just makes Castiel’s lack of experience up with his abundance of it. So far, Castiel’s been running on pure instinct, following the cues from his body. A hand there, a kiss there. It’s simple biology, nevermind that Castiel hated biology as much as he hated everything else back at school.

He’s kissing Dean furiously, both hands now fisted in his hair, tugging lightly. Dean returns the favor, and they stay locked in that position, small gasps working their way out of Castiel when he can’t help it, and Dean murmuring nonsense when Castiel breaks the kiss to plant his lips somewhere other than Dean’s mouth.

“Cas-” Dean finally mutters, sliding a hand down to rest on Cas’ hip. “Cas, just a sec- I don’t think-”

Castiel kisses him again to shut him up, and Dean complies readily enough. Castiel just wants the heat from earlier gone, and if that means replacing it with a new kind of heat, then so be it. He’s moved a hand from Dean’s hair down to the back of the bench, and uses the new leverage to increase the friction between the two of them. Dean lets out a guttural groan, and Castiel mouths at his Adam’s Apple hungrily.

“Cas, Cas, c’mon” Dean is breathing heavily, but he seems determined to get Castiel’s attention this time. “Dude, we’re outside in friggin _daylight_.”

Castiel pulls away and huffs. Dean’s eyes are lust blown, pupils so dilated he can barely see the green around them. His lips are red and swollen, and all Castiel wants to do is lean back in and suck the tip of Dean’s tongue with gusto. Castiel can feel the hard press of Dean’s arousal through his jeans, and Castiel is right there with him. Maybe Dean is right to head back to the room, because if this rutting and grinding continues, Castiel isn’t sure if he wouldn’t end up coming in his pants.

“Let’s go,” He grunts out, and climbs off Dean, refusing to allow his legs to wobble. In the quick walk back to the motel room, the logical parts of Castiel’s brain seem to awaken somewhat, and they are screaming very nasty things at him, indeed. But Castiel shoves them back in the box with all the other shit and feelings he’s locked away, so all that’s left out to play with is the angel currently half a step behind him.

They crash through the door and even though Castiel was in front, somehow Dean manages to fall onto the bed first, and he scoots up near the headboard, Castiel following with a glint in his eye. He climbs onto the bed, straddles Dean once more, and they’re off again, teeth clashing, lips bruising, fingers clinging. There’s nothing gentle or sweet about this, nothing romantic or flowery. This is  dirty and primal and so perfect because when Castiel is thinking about the vibrations in Dean’s throat as he licks a stripe up his Adam’s Apple, he isn’t thinking about how fucked he really is.

Dean pushes his hands under his own jacket on Castiel and pushes it off his shoulders, leather pooling behind Castiel. He grabs the jacket and tosses it off to the side somewhere, attacking Dean’s throat again. He helps Dean shimmy out of his henly, and then his own shirt is off and a whole new territory is opened up to Castiel’s roaming tongue, exploring the map that is Dean’s torso. His tongue charts out the dips of his clavicle, the peaks of his nipples, the jagged edges of his hip bones, Dean writhing above him the whole time, murmuring things in a language Castiel doesn’t understand.

Castiel splays one hand out on Dean’s abdomen, one holding his waist, fingers digging into skin, and presses a kiss to the bulge in Dean’s pants, mouthing at his erection through his jeans. Dean’s breath stutters and catches, and he’s breathing Castiel’s name out like a chant, a revered prayer.

Castiel smiles, likes the feeling of Dean unravelling beneath him. Dean can have them halfway around the globe in a blink (not at the moment, but the thought continues regardless) and Castiel is just glad that maybe, for the first time in this whole fucked up situation, he is the one in control again. Lame as his life was before Dean, at least he had a say in his actions. Here, with Dean, he doesn’t get to make the executive decisions, because, to be frank, he’s extremely out of his depth. Castiel tongues the bulging fabric of Dean’s crotch, and one of Dean’s hands is gently tugging his hair in a motion that could only be described as _keep going_.

Amount of sexual partners notwithstanding, Castiel can’t help but feel a little smug at the idea that, no matter how much Dean loves being with humans, no matter how much he feels emotions like a human, he will never be as human as Castiel. It’s a petty, mean thought, but Castiel can’t bring himself to care. All he knows right now is the heat pulsing in his groin and the fact that he’s both literally and figuratively on top, and he loves it. It’s not even about Dean, and his attraction to Dean, not really.

This is about Castiel.

“Cas, c’mon, Cas,” Dean is looking ridiculously debauched, though his eyes aren’t clouded with the lust Castiel was expecting. They’re bright and clear, and looking right at Castiel. It’s only in that moment when they make eye contact that Castiel remembers that another person is going to be affected by the events of tonight, and that thought should pull him up short, but it doesn’t. He’s so wrapped up in himself, in forgetting himself, that Dean is just in his peripheral vision. 

In fact, there’s a whole voyeuristic vibe that Castiel is getting from this experience, like he’s outside himself somehow, watching the proceedings but not participating. It’s entirely possible that it’s a defense mechanism, since this is Castiel’s first sexual encounter- he could just be shutting himself off because it’s so much, so fast. That’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.

But this detachment that Castiel feels is gnawing at him, a growing pressure behind his eyelids that he can’t seem to will away. He doesn’t think this has to do with defense mechanisms, though that’s the excuse he’ll no doubt give Dean if things start to head south - after all, he knows his body, he’s done the exploring. He’s not ashamed in any sense of the word.

It most likely has to do with the fact that Castiel isn’t currently allowing himself to feel what he wants to feel, because those feelings lead to complications, and Castiel doesn’t like complications. He likes things simple.

Dean is not simple. Here’s Castiel, rutting on top while Dean writhes beneath, and it’s gritty and primal and just _base_ , but when Castiel meets Dean’s eyes, they are anything but. There are soft, parted lips that Castiel meets with fervour, and finds he loves to suck on both the top and bottom one. Thick, inky eyelashes that cast shadows on Dean’s face, just tickling the freckles on his cheek bones, and Castiel doesn’t hesitate to kiss every one, even if the gesture comes off a little sweeter than intended. Rough, work worn hands are warm on Castiel’s sides, and he shivers every time they shift position, tracing paths of sparks along flushed skin. All of that physicality and more that Castiel’s mind can’t catalogue all at once, and yet the thing that stands out most are Dean’s eyes. Green as moss in a forest that’s been ancient and untouched for thousands of years, hidden under canopies of twisting leaves and branches. They are old eyes, but they are young. In his own way, Dean is Castiel’s age. In another way, Dean is something age-old and unfathomable, something Castiel will never truly be able to comprehend. Castiel thinks back weeks ago, thinks of when he arbitrarily decided that he liked contradictions, and feels the sudden, terrifying urge to cry.  

He presses his lips to Dean’s shoulder, buries his face in Dean’s neck to stop what he hopes isn’t an inevitable flood. Dean obviously feels the shift, because he cradles Castiel’s head gently with one hand, while another rests on his cheek, thumb swiping over his swollen mouth with care.

“You okay?” Dean asks gently, eyes so, so soft, that Castiel finds his throat uncomfortably restricted. He nods, trying to school his features again, but he’s never even played poker before, and rarely has to bluff, so he doesn’t know how well he really does.

Obviously, not too well, since Dean’s eyes soften further and starts carding his fingers through Castiel’s hair with such sweetness that he almost gags.

“If this is too fast…” He trails off, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “I just got caught up in it, Cas. We can stop, if you want.”

Castiel feels like he’s frozen, stuck somewhere between wanting to disappear completely and just lose himself again in the musk of arousal that’s still foggy in his mind. Dean’s fingers are still in his hair, his hand still lying on his cheek. As far as ratings goes, things are still pretty PG-13. After all, they both still have all their clothes on. Lots of friction, though. It would be so easy to put on the brakes, and even easier to just succumb to the desire that’s still pooling hot in his stomach, and still obvious in the tent of Dean’s jeans.

But somehow, Castiel only manages to thaw halfway, and he finds himself half-laying on top of Dean, occasionally pressing his lips to Dean’s jawline, and Dean with an arm around him. Things have cooled off somewhat, but Castiel is no less confused. In fact, he’s probably even more confused. Since the unplanned, ill-fated kiss had happened, cuddling was not something Castiel saw as an outcome to that. To be honest, Castiel didn’t think much about the consequences at all, but that doesn’t mean he’s excused from dealing with them.

He came into this thing with half-formed, ill-fitting notions about what he wanted and what Dean wanted, about how he felt, about what he’s ready to give up or just plain ready to give. The voyeuristic mood from earlier has dissipated, and Castiel feels like he’s himself again, though that only worries him more. Detachment, he’s familiar with. Real attachment, though? That’s a whole other can of worms.

But then Dean presses a kiss to his forehead, all tenderness and genuine affection, and Castiel feels like he wants to combust. He’s too complacent with this. Too afraid of this. Too young. Too jaded. Too awful. Two sides of him are warring with each other, screaming and clawing inside him, and it’s all he can do to hold himself together.

During that single, infinite touch, Castiel he realizes that he’s not this person. Not one to stutter over his words or have his face heat up when Dean looks at him. Not one who hugs and touches and caresses. He doesn’t do emotions, because he has never done emotions.

What gives Dean the right, to walk into his life and change who he is? An irrational wave of anger crashes through him. Why should he owe Dean anything? He’s given everything he has, and he’s so afraid that it’s not enough, that it’s too much, it’s just right. He’s afraid of not being who he was all those weeks ago, afraid that person doesn’t exist anymore. What’s happened to him, that he feels the need to scream at the sky and simultaneously want to crawl into his bed and worm his way under the covers until he never has to see daylight again? How can one person, in such a short time period, completely rewrite him? If that’s possible, then just how much of a fixture is Castiel, really? If he can be swayed so easily, does he even have an identity?

Worst of all, what if he changes too much? What if he can’t recognize himself when Dean is through with him? What if Dean leaves, and he’s left all by himself, this new person, to navigate the world alone, minus angel mojo, minus guidance, minus everything?

It’s not fair. None of it is fair. It’s cruel and awful and terrifying and Castiel hates it.

But it’s too big now. It’s screaming in his face and he can’t escape it. It’s ugly.

He accepts that he’s in love with Dean at the same moment that he realizes just how much he doesn’t want to be.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Castiel angsts. Someone realizes something important and someone else pops out of the woodwork.

Castiel feels about as hollow as a jack-o-lantern when he wakes up around noon, and Dean’s solid presence beside him doesn’t do much to dispel the notion.

Having epiphanies is really exhausting.

So, Castiel does what he does best, and ignores the feeling of having his insides scooped out all because of a heat of the moment kiss that somehow ( _somehow_ ) led to cuddling and maybe even possibly wordless declarations.

But, no need to touch that with a ten foot pole unless it becomes absolutely necessary. And if Castiel can help it, it will never become necessary.

Then Castiel glances at Dean, sleeping beside him. His face is soft like it was this morning, open and genuine. It makes Castiel’s chest tighten, because he feels like Dean took off his mask while Castiel added another one to his already heavily outfitted arsenal.

Yeah, once again, Castiel forgot that he wasn’t the only one in this whatevership.

Wait a minute.

Dean is sleeping.

_Sleeping?_

Angels don’t sleep.

“Dean,” Castiel shakes Dean’s shoulder roughly, not interested in sugar coating anything. “Dean,”

Dean blearily opens his eyes, and Castiel has the sudden urge to run a hand through Dean’s sleep mussed hair.

“Dean, you fell asleep,” Castiel says as calmly as possible. He won’t sugar coat it, but he doesn’t want Dean going crazy either.

“I-“ Dean rubs at his eyes with a hand, eyes still somewhat gluey. “I what?”

“Fell asleep.” Castiel informs him.

Realization dawns in Dean’s eyes, and he sits bolt upright in bed, all lethargy forgotten.

“Shit.” He puts his hands over his face, and draws his knees up so his elbows are resting on them. “Shit, shit shitshitshit.”

“Is it part of the Falling?” Castiel asks quietly. He thinks he knows, but he needs to be sure.

“Yeah,” Dean huffs out a weak chuckle with no humor in it. “I dunno, I expected it, I guess? It shouldn’t throw me, really.”

Castiel reaches out an awkward hand, and places it on Dean’s knee. He’s trying, at least. Giving up just a little ground. For Dean’s sake.

“If you haven’t slept in all your life, it would make sense that it’s disorienting.”

 Dean groans.

“If I fell asleep, that means I rested. So why the hell am I still tired?”

“Welcome to the wonders of sleep. No matter how much or how little you get, you’ll always be tired.”

“Wonderful. Well then, screw it. If I need sleep now, I may as well get used to it. I’m going back under.” Dean lies back down and throws an arm over his eyes.

Castiel hesitates. Dean took that pretty well, but that’s not why he’s hesitating. Should he lay back down with Dean? Or get up? After all, this whole mess started because Sam and Dean were having an argument about how to save their lives. And that argument, while very important and high on Castiel’s priority list, might possibly have to shift over to make room for another very important… emotion.

Speaking of arguments, however…

“Where’s Sam?” Castiel asks suddenly.

Dean barks out a laugh. “Oh, I’m sure Sammy took off this morning as soon as he knew what was going on. He’ll give me hell for it later, I’m sure.”

Castiel flushes, not sure if they’re going to have to _talk about it_ , or something equally regrettable.

“When do you think he’ll be back?” Castiel asks, trying to start the day off on a decidedly not intimate note.

Dean sighs, obviously realizing he’s not getting back to sleep anytime soon. “Soon, I guess. I mean, it’s not like we’re doing anything important. Not like we’re saving your ass or anything.”

Castiel’s answer is slow, lilting. “Yes… something important.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow at that. “Try a little humble pie,” He suggests sarcastically. When Castiel doesn’t respond, his other eyebrow joins the first. “Oh, don’t tell me,” He sits up, hand resting lightly on his thigh, hair sticking in every direction. “You don’t think you deserve to be saved,”

A harsh laugh escapes Castiel’s lips. He thinks of his life, thinks back on all the years he’s been aware of himself, of his actions- or non-actions, he thinks would be a closer approximation. He thinks of Dean, who is a good person and an even better brother. Dean, who is an angel, took a liking to him. The angel who cared about everything and the boy who cared about nothing.

The boy who went and fell in love with the angel, however much he fought against it, however much it twists his stomach and makes him want to run for the nearest hills. He has nothing to offer this world. Nothing to offer Dean. Nothing to offer anybody. Not even himself. He’s even managed to fuck up the first sort of good thing to ever happen to him. It’s his fault they’re on the run in the first place. He corrupted an angel, for christ’s sake.

“ _Obviously_ , I deserve to be saved, Dean.” He spits out. “ _Obviously_ , I should be putting you and your brother in danger. Because I’m such a specimen, aren’t I? A paragon of humanity. God among men. I mean, remember when I won the Pulitzer? The Nobel Peace Prize? I stopped World War Three as well. Oh, or that time I lifted a car off a kid? Or when I ran into that burning building to save an old lady’s fatass, spitty, hate-filled cat? I walked out of that building with scratches all over my face and neck and had to get a tetanus shot the next day, but it was worth it to see the old hag smile. The mayor gave me a medal for that one. I mean _jesus_ , Dean, why not just put my face on the twenty dollar bill so that everyone, every day, can look upon me and see everything I’ve done for this goddam sorry sack of crap world?”

Castiel is breathing heavily by the time he’s done ranting, and he’s pretty shocked at himself. Dean is too, if the look on his face is anything to go by.

“Cas-” he chokes out, extending a hand, pleading. Castiel wants to scream, wants to drive his fist through the wall, because Dean is only reaching out because of last night, reaching out because apparently they _do_ that now. Not only that, but he had to go and fall in love with the angel as well. And so far, it’s looking like he’s landed flat on his face with dirt and grass clogging his eyes and mouth. It doesn’t change the fact that everything inside Castiel is encouraging him to take Dean’s outstretched hand, sink back into bed and just forget everything he just said. Forget about everything he hasn’t done. Forget that he is nothing, _worth_ nothing. Dean just somehow wormed right under Castiel’s skin, and Castiel is so deathly afraid, so absolutely terrified- not of what Dean may find in there, but what he may _not_ find. Because Castiel is fairly sure Dean won’t find anything. He’ll unravel and unravel, and it’ll be the same string, the same song, and like a badly knitted sweater, Castiel will just end up as a big pile of nothing, with not a center to speak of.

So Castiel takes these thoughts, takes all of them, and shoves them down as far as he can. Because he is selfish and needy and wants this. Some instinctual part of him needs touch, comfort. Castiel’s thoughts are heavy, and Dean’s caresses are light.

Castiel takes Dean’s hand, allows himself to be pulled back onto the bed, allows himself to be shuffled up, Dean against the headboard and his head on Dean’s chest, one hand cross-body resting on his hip. Dean presses his lips into Castiel’s hair, murmurs soft and soothing things, placating. Castiel doesn’t listen to any of that nonsense. He kisses Dean, too tender, through the soft cotton of his t-short, grips his hip a little bit tighter. One of Dean’s hands is carding softly through his hair, the other a gentle, warm pressure on his lower back.

He’s tense at first, the feeling so alien to him that it takes him a moment to place it as _comfort_. He relaxes inch by inch, letting Dean’s gentle fingers in his hair and safe palm on his back soothe him, lull him into the state of almost-sleeping where troublesome thoughts tend to come out to play.

“Dean,” He murmurs, mouthing at Dean’s t-shirt. Dean’s fingers stop their ministrations, and holy shit, did Castiel just make a sound of protest because of that? He definitely did, because Dean’s chest rumbles with a low, breathy laugh, and the fingers are back to their usual pattern.

“Cas,” Dean replies, smile in his voice.

“Dean,” Castiel repeats, sleep making his voice thick. “Dean, m’sorry. M’just… really, really fucked up.”

A hand is suddenly on Castiel’s cheek, soft and reassuring.

“Don’t say that,” Dean says it gently, but it’s an order, not a plea. “You’re worth saving.”

Castiel wants to believe. He _wants_ to. But he can’t. So he just grips Dean’s t-shirt tighter, fist curling around the fabric like a vice.

***

He knows he’s asleep when he runs into Zachariah again.

They aren’t in the beautiful room this time. This time, Castiel is sitting on a park bench, Zachariah sitting on the one adjacent. There’s a playground in front of them, but no children in sight.

“That damn red tape,” Zachariah comments lightly, one arm outstretched along the back of the bench. He looks disturbingly relaxed, like the cat who just got the cream.

Castiel shifts, his stomach begging to turn inside out. Zachariah looks content. Nothing about that is good.

“You see,” Zachariah starts, looking off into the distance with narrowed eyes, “the thing about angels, about free will and choice and fate, is that they’re all limited in the same way.” He turns to Castiel, obviously waiting for a prompt from him.

“And how is that?” Castiel asks stiffly.

Zachariah points a finger gun at him, clicks his thumb down, and winks. “Consent,” He says with relish. “We can move the pieces on the board to an extent, sure, but when it comes down to it,” He shakes his head, like he really wishes this wasn’t the way things were, “Well, the only thing getting you on the board in the first place are your own two legs.” Zachariah’s eyes are grey and sharp. They remind Castiel of a snake. “And Castiel, my boy,” He reaches over and pats Castiel’s knee with gusto. “You walked onto the board today. But you didn’t just walk, you outright hop-skipped your way into your fate without even realizing it.”

Something slips inside Castiel’s stomach, and he realizes it was just his stomach shifting down an inch or so, ready to drop out the bottom of his shoes at any moment.

“Wh-what?” He manages to croak out, Zachariah’s dreamwalking mind-meld still in effect, obviously.

“ _Consent,_ ” Zachariah repeats. “You _consented_ , Castiel. To yourself.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything, can’t possibly say anything. But a very very bad feeling is pressing cold fingers into his chest at the words.

Zachariah’s smile grows until it’s almost splitting his face, and for a second he looks inhuman, like a puppet.

Castiel still can’t say anything, and Zachariah’s smile drops a couple degrees.

“Oh, c’mon. Don’t make _me_ say it, son. I want you to _own_ your achievement, _own_ your place on that chessboard. We both know what I’m talking about. Now spit it out.”

Castiel swallows heavily. Yeah, he’s pretty sure he knows. The realization that hit him like a tsunami this morning, something he should have seen building up for weeks. The water had been sucked away from the shoreline for god knows how long, and Castiel still sat there building his damn sandcastles and working on his tan. It was almost embarrassing.

“My feelings for Dean,” Castiel manages through tight lips.

Zachariah’s glee tastes of malevolence, and Castiel wants to choke. “That’s right, kiddo! You’re in the game now, first string, starting quarterback. The crowds are cheering for you, Castiel. We’re all in your corner.”

“I- I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Castiel half-pleads. “I don’t understand any of this. Aren’t you after me for corrupting Dean?”

Zachariah clucks his tongue in disappointment.

“I already told you that poor Dean’s got everything a little backwards. We’ve been waiting for you, Castiel. For a very long time.” He shakes his head with a faraway smile, like he can’t believe what he’s saying. “I told you that we were waiting. I told you that… last night, didn’t I?” At Castiel’s faint nod, he continues. “Yes, last night. Time works differently in heaven. I’ve got to stave off the jet lag.” He stands up, hands clasped behind his back and starts pacing in front of Castiel, like some sort of predator. “Castiel, Castiel, Castiel. Honestly, I thought you might be too emotionally unstable for this to work. I thought your true nature was going to tear this whole thing down. But that’s the thing about aiming low. When you actually hit the bulls eye, you’re always pleasantly surprised.”

Zachariah sits next to Castiel this time, puts a reassuring hand on Castiel’s knee.

“Too emotionally unstable for what?” Castiel asks warily, feeling the water being sucked away from the shoreline once more. _Get off the beach._

“Why, for the big event!” Zachariah’s smile is almost manic, but his eyes are a sharp, calculating grey. “The apocalypse, of course!”

And there’s the tsunami, back for an encore. Castiel reels backwards, almost falling off the bench in the process.

“What?!”

“You’re our star, Castiel. The last piece of the puzzle.”

“No.” Castiel is standing now, fists clenched. Whatever lock Zachariah has on Castiel’s mind is ignored for the moment, Castiel’s rage boiling hot and fierce. “Look, I don’t know you asshats from Adam, but you most definitely aren’t going to show up in my head and tell me I’m the catalyst for the fucking apocalypse. No fucking way.”

The only reaction Zachariah gives is the slight raising of his eyebrows, and Castiel’s chest is still heaving.

“Okay then!” Zachariah slaps his knees and stands up, trademark smug grin back in place. “I admire your tenacity. Hell, I’ll even throw you a bone because I think it’s fun when pets like to play.” He winks at Castiel. “You should watch your terminology. I believe it should have been, ‘I don’t know you asshats from Lilith’. See you soon, kid.”

And then Castiel wakes up.

***

“Son of a bitch,” is the first comment Dean makes after Castiel retells his dream. (Minus the whole thing about certain feelings being directed towards a certain person) Sam’s mouth has fallen open, and Castiel is pretty sure he could catch a whole bee hive.

Castiel massages the bridge of his nose with shut eyes. There’s a headache coming on.

“Okay,” Sam says under the guise of calmness, running a hand through his hair. “It’s okay. It’s fine. Now, at least, we have more info to work with.”

Dean levels a glare at Sam. “Yeah, super duper. Because now we know they want Cas for sure, and don’t give a shit about either of us.”

Sam huffs and rolls his shoulders in agitation. “Look. We can do this. We should be safe for now-”

His statement is cut off by a yell from Castiel, and Dean is at his side so fast it’s almost supernatural.

“Cas? Cas!” Cas collapses in a whimper, and Dean wraps his arms around him, settling him against his chest on the floor.

“Cas, what’s wrong,” Dean grits out, shaking Castiel the smallest bit, hands fisted in his shirt.

“My- my chest.” Cas manages to gasp. “It’s burning, Dean. It’s- _ah_ ,” He clenches at Dean’s hand over his shirt, grabs it for all he’s worth.

“Okay, okay,” Dean shoves Castiel’s hands out of the way, and starts tugging Castiel’s shirt over his head.

“Sam, cold towels, now,” Dean orders, and Castiel hears Sam clattering around in the bathroom.

Dean finishes pulling Castiel’s shirt off, flings if into the corner somewhere, and is running blessedly cool fingers along Castiel’s torso.

“I think-” Another wave of pain hits him, and Castiel slams his fist on the carpet. “It’s the _sigil_ , Dean.”

And Dean’s hands are on the sigil, and they feel good, so good.

“Why the fuck is the sigil burning?” Dean spits out, most likely to himself.

“I just- keep your hands there, please.” Castiel begs, holding Dean’s hands against his chest. “It’s feeling better now.”

Leaving one hand spread over the ink, Dean cups Castiel’s cheek, forces him to meet his gaze.

“Are you okay? Is anything else hurting?”

Castiel shakes his head, letting it fall back against the side of the bed. The burn in his chest is cooling now, soothed by Dean’s hands.

“No, no. the burn is gone.”

Something wet and cold is pushed against Castiel’s torso and he yelps, surprised. Sam obviously got the towels, then.

“I’m fine, Dean. No more painful burning sensations.” Castiel assures him, but Dean stubbornly continues to press the towel to Castiel’s chest.

“What the fuck was _that_?” Dean growls, and Castiel knows it’s directed at Sam this time.

“I have no idea,” Sam admits, but he’s biting the inside of his cheek, worried. “Are you sure you did the sigil right?”

“We’ve had no problems till today!” Dean replies in agitation, flipping the towel over. Castiel winces as rivulets of cold water run down his torso. Dean catches them with his free hand and wipes them on his pants.

“Maybe I should check, just in case,” Sam hedges.

“Yes, please do,” Castiel invites, pushing Dean’s hand and the damn cold cloth off him. He stands up, Dean rising with him, and Sam steps forward, peering at Castiel’s chest. It only takes him a moment to assess it, and then he announces that everything looks fine.

“I, uh, I dunno, Cas.” Sam says, worry lacing his voice. From somewhere on the other side of the room, Dean tosses Castiel’s shirt back to him. Castiel shrugs it on, still feeling the echoes of the burn in his chest.

“You don’t think that it has anything to do with Zachariah and the angels?” Castiel asks quietly, knowing as soon as the question is out that it most definitely has to do with Zachariah and the other angels.

Sam and Dean exchange a significant look, and Sam says, “Even if it is them, I don’t understand how they could have done it? You’re hidden. That sigil is perfect.”

Castiel sighs, and places a hand on the sigil without realizing he’s doing it.

“We need to figure out who Lilith is,” He says evenly, sitting back down on the bed.

“No we don’t,” Dean interjects. At Sam’s look, he continues, “I already know who she is.”

“And you didn’t think to share with the class?” Sam asks disbelievingly.

“Oh, sorry, my- Cas here was just writhing in agony on the floor. Did you want me to tell you about Lilith while a hole is burning its way through his chest?”

Sam rolls his eyes and sends an apologetic glance Castiel’s way.

“Okay, Dean, tell us about Lilith.”

“Well, while you were paying attention in angel academy,” Dean sneers, “I was doing _real_ research. All kinds of old legends- the really obscure stuff. Lilith is one of the oldest, because she was also the first woman created. Cas, I assume you know the story of Adam and Eve?” At Castiel’s nod, Dean continues, “Okay, great. Because there’s more to that story. According to lore, Lilith was Adam’s _first_ wife. And she wasn’t created from his rib. She was created from the same earth as Adam. But apparently, Adam had it in his head that Lilith was supposed to be this submissive possession of his, and she didn’t like that too much, so she took off. Right out of the Garden of Eden. And then she-” Dean stops, his eyes widening like he’s just realizing something. “Holy shit. She took off and mated with the angel Samael.” His voice trails off, and Sam’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. They stare at each other for a moment, an unspoken conversation passing between the two of them, and then Sam laughs.

“C’mon, Dean. Be serious. Me and _Lilith_?”

Dean seems frozen, his mind seeming to fully click into place all the implications of his story. “There’s more,” He says quietly.

“Lilith left the garden of Eden. She mated with Samael. But then she- she became the first demon. After Lucifer fell, and Lilith died on Earth, she was sent to hell for leaving the Garden. She was the first soul in hell, and the first demon to pop back out. She’s basically Lucifer’s right hand.”

Sam doesn’t seem as amused by the story anymore. “Dean, there’s _no_ way. I mean, this is all lore and speculation anyways. A legend. And even if it wasn’t, this all already happened. There must have been another angel named Samael.”

“Sam, you know angelic names don’t just happen randomly. They’re traceable back thousands of years. It’s your- _our_ \- family line with that name. It was a Samael related to me and you.”

“Your name is _Dean_ , Dean. That’s not even an angelic name. You really think our family gives a crap about keeping a name alive?”

At the way Dean’s expression darkens, Castiel feels like Sam is very close to crossing a line.

“Oh, yeah?” Dean takes a step towards Sam, body stiff and fists clenched. “You mean the name _Winchester_? Or what about the fact that these are the names our _mother_ gave us, huh? Are we just gonna spit on her grave by saying these names aren’t important? That they don’t _mean_ something?”

“I’m not _saying_ that, Dean. I understand the lineage. I do. But I really don’t think- I just- it’s a coincidence, the whole Samael and Lilith thing. I really think we need to forget about it and examine the other aspects of the legend.”

Castiel finds it very interesting how Dean seems to be the only one who is allowed to insult heaven and its institutions. As much as he wants to be on earth, it’s obvious that his family-his real family, anyways- is a very significant part of his life. Castiel can’t help but think about how he views his own family in comparison to how Dean views his.

“Maybe we should be focusing on the fact that there’s a looming apocalypse?” Castiel cuts in when Dean looks like he’s ready to argue into the night about Sam and Lilith. “And apparently I’m the catalyst? I mean what kind of fucked up system chooses a socially inept seventeen year old with a jaded world view who doesn’t even go to church?”

The question seems to distract Dean enough, as he turns towards Castiel. “Trust me, dude, don’t question the system. It’ll spin you in circles and have you chasing your tail the whole way. It’s fucked, it really is.”

“But I don’t even understand what I could offer them,” Castiel exclaims, scrubbing his jaw. “What do they want me for?”

Sam sighs. “Sometimes people just get chosen. It’s just how it works.”

Castiel bites the inside of his cheek, considering. It’s most definitely important that he’s _consented_ in his feelings for Dean, or whatever Zachariah was talking about. It’s probably something he should say out loud. Something he should _definitely_ say out loud.

He hasn’t even had time to process it, not really. Almost as soon as he realized, he was whisked off to apocalypse land and suddenly, time isn’t a luxury they have anymore. Not that it ever was on their side, but things tend to get a little more crunched once screaming-firey-death becomes a distinct possibility.

Not only that, but Castiel doesn’t really know what to _do_ with those feelings. After all, Dean is an angel. Dean is immortal. Dean isn’t even really human.

It’s funny though, because none of that even seems to matter. Not when the large, flashing neon sign above it all screams, _Castiel Novak isn’t fit to love, be loved in return, or experience love in any way, shape or form_. He’s a shell, a mannequin. Dress him up in as many outfits as you want, but at the center, he’s never going to amount to anything more than a wiry frame and maybe a wisp or two of cloth.

Which, of course, makes it all the more surprising that he suddenly finds himself completely and stupidly in love with Dean Winchester. It’s whip lash of the most severe kind, going from zero to sixty in two-point-six seconds flat.

He’s so out of his depth here that he’s not even in the pool, and it’s scaring him. It feels like he’s rebelling against his basic nature, against the very essence of who he is.  

And now he doesn’t have the time to adjust or work the words through his mind and learn how they feel on his tongue. This is all going to have to be done so _wrong_ , because he has to do what’s right. Castiel isn’t used to doing things because they’re right, he’s used to doing things because they need doing. But for once, maybe he can be proactive. Maybe he can do something worthwhile, something that, hell, might even help them stop the apocalypse for chrissakes. Because he has to do right by Dean, and, through association, do right by himself.

And if all else fails-if it crashes and burns, if the information doesn’t help at all, if they fail to stop whatever the angels are planning- at least Castiel will be too busy being a smear on the pavement to feel too awkward about his inevitably distressing love declaration.

“There’s, um, something else,” Castiel says, wanting to crawl out of his own skin. His heart is beating a tattoo against his chest, and there’s a ringing in his ears. He feels fuzzy around the edges, like he’s fraying apart at the seams, and it wouldn’t really surprise him if his bodily makeup of molecules and atoms have decided to jump ship a little early from embarrassment. “Something about the dream,”

“Something you didn’t feel the need to mention earlier?” Dean prods, irritated.

“It’s not- I didn’t-” Castiel’s cheeks are burning and his palms are clammy. This is awful. This is torturous. At least with the apocalypse coming, there’s a chance the ground could crack open and he’d get swallowed by it.

“Geeze, dude, relax, just tell us what else happened,” Dean can obviously tell Castiel is uncomfortable, and he sits on the bed next to him, hand on his forearm. God help him, the touch actually calms him down somewhat.

“In the dream,” Castiel manages to choke out, “Zachariah said that… he said that they had been waiting for me to consent. To myself.” He chances a glance at Dean, who still seems oblivious.

“Yeah, go on,” he encourages, reassuring squeeze to Castiel’s arm.

Dean may not get it yet, but when Castiel turns to Sam, he can see the dawning realization clear as day.

“I was um, confronted, I guess. By certain, ah, feelings. And by realizing those feelings, Zachariah explained that that was why I was ‘ready’.”

“Jesus, Cas, you’re gonna give me an ulcer here. What were these _feelings_?”

Castiel’s having his own issues at the moment, but he’s pretty sure he can detect the tremor in Dean’s voice.

“Dean,” Sam says quietly, admonishing, in a this-pitiful-teenaged-human-is-confessing-their-love-to-you-stop-making-things-more-difficult kind of way.

Castiel takes a deep breath, and then he takes the plunge.

“I love you.”

Castiel thinks the air in the room has disappeared, and he’s currently living inside a vacuum. He can’t hear anything, not even his own thoughts. It’s just a white buzz in his head, and an empty ache in his chest, because he’s pretty sure his heart is being held in Dean’s palms for the moment, and he’s just waiting for it to be either given back to him, stomped on, or just plain laughed at.

Dean’s hand has gone very, very still on his arm. His mouth is parted in a permanent, “oh,” and his eyes are wide and glassy.

“Um, Sam,” He eventually says, in a very thick voice, “can you, uh, give us a minute?”

Sam startles, like he’s just woken up. “Yeah, of course. Just- let me know when things are- just call me if- uh- I’ll see you later,” And he’s gone, and now Castiel and Dean are alone, the words hanging between them practically pulsing with a heartbeat of their own.

Dean licks his lips, a furrow between his brows, and Castiel is pretty sure he’s never felt this numb before, even though he can feel himself trembling.

Dean takes his hand off Castiel’s arm, and suddenly it’s cold and awful and everything is wrong and he may as well be made of stone, except Dean’s talking now, forcing Castiel to listen through that wall of buzzing, white noise.

“You don’t,” Dean says quietly, forcefully. Like it would be impossible for Castiel –for _anyone_ \- to love him.

Yeah, fuck feeling numb. The bottom drops out of Castiel’s stomach, and he has the sudden urge to step in and defend Dean’s honor against Dean himself and how fucked up is that? And yet, here Castiel just bared his soul to Dean, and the first thing Dean says is that Castiel is _wrong_? Castiel isn’t well versed in declarations like these, but as receptions go, he figures it’s a pretty strong negative.

“I- look, we don’t have to put this under a microscope,” Castiel quickly interjects, his brain on autopilot and spiralling into self defense mode. He’s pulling up the drawbridge, closing the curtains, locking the doors- the walls are coming back up, fast and with definitive _clangs_. “I only mentioned it because I thought it might be important, since Zachariah said that was why I was ready for whatever in the first place and just… nevermind. Forget it. Pretend I never said anything.”

For as much as Dean seemed interested in the flirting, in the kissing and the teasing, the look on his face right now is enough to convince Castiel that that’s all there ever was to it, and he was a fool for ever letting this ridiculous feeling creep up on him and ensnare him in its claws.

“Cas…” Dean says, and it’s underlined in too many emotions for Castiel to even begin to decipher.

“Dean. Forget it. Or not, if it’s important to this apocalypse thing, whatever. Let’s just look at this as another clue, okay? Another piece to the puzzle. We can be adult about this, right?”

Because adults deal with things by pretending they never happened. That’s right.

“Let’s just…” Castiel closes his eyes and sighs heavily. He opens them to see Dean still staring at him, and it’s amazing how Dean can be so closed off and so open at the same time. “We can be objective about this. Forget about the emotions, and focus on the plot. What does this mean for Zachariah? For the apocalypse? How the hell does love have an effect on bringing about the end of the world? And how does Lilith factor into it all?” 

For a moment, it looks like Dean’s going to argue. Castiel almost groans in relief when Dean just stands up instead and grabs a beer from the mini fridge. He takes a look at Castiel over his shoulder, considers, and then tosses one to him as well, then leans back against the fridge, arms crossed.

The auto pilot is still firmly in place, but at least Castiel manages a, “What about the drinking age?” And he’s rather proud of himself for mustering up a half-hearted smirk.

Dean waves it off, scoffing. “Strange times. Besides, I was just teasing you anyways. I would have zapped you to any bar you wanted so fast it would make your head spin- and that would be before even a drop of whiskey passed your lips.”

“You’re all about the _teasing_ ,” Castiel mumbles before he even realizes it. He’s glad as hell for Dean’s human hearing at the moment, because he’s really not up for another heart to heart quite yet- or another fight, if he’s being honest.

“Everything okay?” A hesitant voice asks from behind him, and Castiel whirls around, dropping his beer. Dean catches it smoothly and stuffs it back in his hands before pulling away quickly.

Sam’s back, looking awkward as hell with a hand rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Yeah, o’course.” Dean says curtly, taking a swig of beer. Castiel tries not to watch the way the skin over his Adam’s apple pulls with each swallow. He really tries not to think about it.

“Okay,” Sam says hesitantly, like he’s walking in a minefield. “I just- I wasn’t even gone that long and then you called me and-”

“We’re _fine_ , Sam,” Dean sits in the desk chair and rests the beer bottle against his inner thigh, drumming his fingers against it restlessly.

“Okay, okay.” Sam raises placating hands and Dean seems appeased, but Castiel still wouldn’t say no to crawling into the nearest hole and dying under a rock.

Dean takes another pull at his beer before putting it on the desk with a definitive smack.

“We need answers.” He states simply. “We can’t just sit here with our thumbs up our asses while there’s apparently a freakin’ apocalypse in the works and we have the big red button sitting six feet away from us.”

Sam shrugs, voice taunting. “Sure thing, Dean. Any ideas?”

“Fuck, who cares? I just need to do _something_. We could always go back and talk to Anna.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah? And how much help was she the first time around?”

“She gave us the sigil,” Castiel supplies.

“You mean the sigil that just burned you not an hour ago?” Sam quirks an eyebrow.

“Wait, you think Anna _meant_ for that to happen?” Dean asks, aghast.

Sam spreads his hands. “No one’s saying anything yet, Dean. We just need to be careful now that we know what we’re dealing with.”

“We _don’t_ know what we’re dealing with,” Dean responds hotly.

“Exactly,” Sam says triumphantly. “So maybe we shouldn’t be all guns blazing quite yet.”

Dean mutters under his breath but doesn’t say anything else.

“Okay, so… how exactly do we figure out what’s going on?” Castiel asks when it becomes apparent that no one else will.

Sam sighs.

“I’ll head back upstairs. See what I can dig up. Maybe interrogate a couple of the archangel grunts.”

“Sam,” Dean warns, ready to get into it again.

“Dean.” Sam holds up a hand. “Shut up. It’s all we’ve got right now. I’ve done fine so far. Really, the archangels need to up their game if they want to use me to get to you guys.”

“Don’t get fucking cocky, Sam,” Dean snaps, standing up. “There’s still this whole thing with Lilith and god knows what else brewing, and oh yeah, a friggin apocalypse to watch out for.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I don’t know how long it’ll be before I’m able to check in again, but I think you guys should keep moving. And _no_ hunting, Dean. That was a really dumb idea.”

“It was one hunt. Keep your panties on.”

“Yeah, and surprise surprise, it was one of the weirdest hunts ever. Obviously the universe isn’t thrilled with either of you right now, so just keep your noses clean, okay?”

Dean just huffs while Castiel nods like a chastised child. Sam nods at him, clasps Dean’s shoulder, and he’s off with nary a ripple of displaced air.

Castiel didn’t want Sam to leave. The atmosphere thickens as soon as he’s gone, and suddenly there’s a lot of tension. An overwhelming amount.

“So,” Dean says with a crapload of false bravado. “Looks like it’s time for another road trip.”

Castiel sighs. He hopes Sam isn’t gone for too long.

***

Sam is gone a long time.

But the thing is, Castiel doesn’t mind.

They’ve been switching motels every few days for a couple of weeks now, and really, aside from the occasional colorful dream, things have been relatively quiet.

Nothing of note happens between Dean and Castiel, and they seem to be falling into something of a routine. God forbid, but Castiel would almost call it domestic. In a really twisted, fucked up way.

The tension that was so thick after Sam left them alone together dissipated quickly enough when Dean started hurling orders at Castiel to grab his shit and get in the car, and then Dean had blasted the music way too loud, never leaving a spare atomic space for any amount of it to rise again.

It feels sort of like that very small window when they first met, after Castiel knew Dean was an angel, but before all the road trip from hell shenanigans that came afterwards. There was a banter, a rhythm to them.

The occasional touch still happened, but nothing major. A brushing of fingers when passing the food, or a shoulder bump when maneuvering around the small motel rooms. Nothing big. That didn’t mean Castiel’s nerves didn’t jump ever time it happened, but neither of them acknowledged it. Nothing was said about Castiel’s L-word declaration, and still nothing is said about it. No one says anything about how Castiel’s showers take longer than they used to, either.

Meanwhile, on the apocalypse front, nothing. Dean had ominously pointed out that it probably meant they were just in the quiet before the storm, and Castiel had spent the rest of the day with an uneasy pit in his stomach.

Castiel is just waking from a strange dream in which he climbs the same set of seven stairs over and over again, only to stop on the highest step every time, look behind him, and then descend again, and repeat the process. He doesn’t wake naturally, though, as there’s a certain aroma drifting to him across their skeezy motel room of the week.

He sits up, running a hand through his hair blearily. It’s sometime in late November by now, almost December. There’s snow on the ground outside, and it’s dark out.

“Morning, angel,” Dean chirps without turning around, stirring something on the stove. In their newfound domesticity, Dean has taken to calling Castiel “angel”, which he finds hilarious, and Castiel finds annoyingly endearing, and refuses to admit that his heart swells just a bit every time Dean uses it.

“What are you doing?” Castiel asks, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands. Dean pours whatever is in the pot into a mug, and brings it over to Castiel, eyes bright.

“Cocoa,” He announces, and passes the warm mug into Castiel’s hands sitting on the bed opposite him. “Sleep really isn’t all that you humans hype it up to be, so I decided to go all Martha Stewart on your ass today. Lucky you.”

Castiel stares at the cocoa dubiously. “Uh, thanks.” He says it slowly, levelly, even though there’s a whole host of emotions simmering just under the surface. He tries to push them down, tries to ignore the voices that urge him to slam the mug onto the side table and literally fling himself across the gap between the beds and tackle Dean onto the covers, kissing his face with heat and fervor and thanks. It’s scary how content Castiel already is, what with a looming apocalypse and some unknown destiny still hanging over his head, and it’s even scarier to think that his brain isn’t even close to objecting to the idea like it once was.

This lull, this break in action and confusion, only to be filled with long talks and bad movie marathons with touching thighs has left Castiel enough time to realize that what he feels for Dean is very real indeed, and even though he said it terribly and at the worst possible time in the world, he had meant it with every fibre of his being, and he continues to mean it even further with the passing weeks.

He’s wondered more than once how it would feel if he let go, like he did on the day he finally kissed Dean, permanently. He’s wondered what it feels like to let yourself fall, and keep on falling.

But the thing is, it’s not that easy. To rewrite biology like that, it’s next to impossible, and Castiel was never good at the sciences.

“You look more constipated than usual,” Dean observes. “What, did I wake you up from a happy dream or something?” Dean still teases, but he’s more careful about it now. He softens the barbs with gentle eyes and easy smiles and platonic slaps on the shoulder and knee. That tension between them is still there, but it’s more of a simmer than a boil now. Muted by genuine affection on both sides (and it still throws Castiel through a loop whenever he thinks about it directly and consciously like that) and the general camaraderie they’ve come to share.

Of course, there’s still problems. There’s always problems. Literally, there’s world shattering problems.

The happy-times domestics don’t stop them from fighting, though. Take the two most affable people in the world and throw them together twenty four/seven, and even they’ll have a doozy of a fight or two.

And the problem with that in regards to Dean and Castiel is that neither of them are particularly affable- Castiel especially. In fact, their biggest row had to have been when Castiel said –of all things- that he wanted to lift the spell off his parents.

“You can only ‘honeymoon’ for so long, Dean. Sure, they aren’t my favorite people, but we can’t just leave them like that.”

“What do you want me to do, Cas? I’m completely out of angel mojo. The spell will hold just fine.”

“That’s well and good, but what about their jobs? What about their lives? No one’s going to take too kindly to them just disappearing off the face of the earth for a while.”

“It’s for their own good. It’s protection. You don’t want Zachariah or any of his mooks getting in, do you?”

And so it went. By the end of the fight, a lamp was broken, a picture or two fallen off the wall, and the alarm clock had been ripped out of its socket and flung against the back of the door.

Friends they were, compromisers they were not.

***

“Fucking laundry,” Dean grouses as they lounge on the benches at the local Laundromat in whatever backwoods town they find themselves in today. Castiel had lost track sometime around a third of the way through Wyoming.

“If I was still juiced up, this wouldn’t even be a problem,” Dean complains, laying out flat on the bench, resting his boots on Castiel’s thigh. Castiel sighs good naturedly to go along with it, but he’s heard this complaint so many times in the past few days it’s really starting to itch under his skin. While Zachariah may have said that Dean was kicked out for reasons other than Castiel corrupting him, it didn’t stop him from understanding that he must harbor at least _some_ of the blame for it.

It’s hard to be comforting, but Castiel is learning, slowly, how to deal with Dean. A lot of the time, it’s best to just listen. Castiel figures that upstairs, with however many angels jabbering on their mind-link thing, that it must be hard to find someone with a ready ear. So he tries to give Dean that, whenever he isn’t feeling like crawling out of his skin for one reason or another.

“It’s not like we have anywhere else to be,” Castiel replies lightly, patting Dean’s shoe absentmindedly. It’s a twenty four hour Laundromat, and pitch black out, so they’re the only ones inside. The employee is somewhere in the back doing something that Castiel didn’t understand and didn’t care about enough to ask.

“We could be back at the motel watching a Back to the Future marathon, actually. So yes, we do have somewhere else to be.” Dean says petulantly. Castiel sends him a raised eyebrow for his consideration, and banishes the thought of kissing the pout away from Dean’s mouth.

“Clothes are almost done. We’ll be out of here in ten minutes, tops.”

Castiel drums his fingers on Dean’s shoes, suddenly deep in thought. There’s been something he’s wanted to ask Dean for a very long time. Since the first day they met, actually. Their second encounter with Sam reminded Castiel of it, and he figures now, in the quiet of this Laundromat, away from the closest thing they call home so they don’t bring it back with them, this is probably his best chance to ask it.

“Dean,” Castiel says quietly.

“Mmm?”

“Tell me about your mother,”

Dean’s sitting up in a flash, eyes hard and glinting.

“Why the hell would you ask me that?”

Castiel swallows. “The first day we met, I asked you that dumb question about being a serial killer, and I asked you about your mother, and you just froze up.” _And then I had to calm you down by showing you my stupid trick with the ivy, which I’ve never told anyone, and I’m pretty goddam sure that I was already caught by then,_ Castiel thinks somewhat bitterly. If only he had known back then- hindsight being twenty twenty and all. “And then, when we saw Sam a while back, and you guys were talking about her again  and I was just… I wondered,” Castiel says. “You don’t have to tell me.” He adds hastily, unsure whether touching Dean at the moment would be a good idea. He doesn’t.

Dean’s eyes are still hard, but Castiel sees him suck in a deep breath, hold it, and watches his shoulders deflate inch by inch. He’s utterly surprised when Dean starts talking.

“No one knows where angels go when they die.” He says quietly, reverently. His eyes are far away, looking at a random brick on the wall but seeing something different entirely. “My mother- she’s dead. It happened when me and Sam were young. My dad, he, uh, didn’t take it too well.

“Some angels mate for life, and my parents were definitely the ones who planned to. But something went wrong with the ‘heavenly cleansing’, they call it.” At Castiel’s confused expression, he adds, “It’s this thing they do when heaven gets a little too cluttered. Like spring cleaning, I guess. They just set all the unused bits on fire-it’s not literally fire, but close enough- and that makes room for more of whatever they need at the time. They’re bureaucratic that way,” He chuckles darkly, with zero traces of humor. “Nothing like a little recycling.”

“And then, because they’re so goddamned bureaucratic, they also made a mistake in whatever heaven’s equivalent of paperwork is, because they burned our home by accident. And holy fire, it just consumes _everything_. So when my dad brought us back from wherever we were- _fuck,_ I can’t even remember anymore- there was literally nothing left for us. No remains, no ashes. Just charred wing marks on the ground, like a fucking tombstone or something.

“So my dad went loco- for an angel, anyways. We have no idea where he is. Haven’t seen him for years. I have a feeling he’s on the angel equivalent of a bender, except it’s gonna be a bender across the cosmos. Fun.

“’Sides,” Dean continues hollowly, “S’not like he can bring her back or something. There’s no lore, no stories, no legends. Angels aren’t taught to fear death, or even think about it. Our family, the Winchesters, we were… different. I mean, we’re not even related, not really. Our true forms are freakin’ stardust, so it’s not like we can be blood related, since stardust doesn’t bleed.

“But we were family in every way that counted,” Dean says with more conviction, like he’s coming back to himself. “Sam has been with me through everything, has stuck by me the whole time. Kid’s had his issues, god knows we’ve had our issues, but we’re still brothers.”

They sit in silence for a moment. Castiel is digesting everything Dean’s just told him, and Dean looks kind of hollow, but not in a physical way. He seems lighter, too, though. Castiel thinks it’s a good thing.

“But the thing is, Cas,” Dean finally says. “I don’t think it- my mom’s accident- was an accident at all.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows.

“What do you think it was?”

“I dunno,” Dean says, and Castiel can see that it agitates him to no end. “After she died, that was when I got into the weird lore. How I knew about Lilith in the first place. Because for all that heaven is full of righteous dicks with wings, they don’t make mistakes like that. They don’t _accidentally_ burn a home and kill one of their own.

“So I started doing research. Read up on all kinds of crap. Befriended who I could in the higher ranks, or at least got them not to hate me. Pulled strings, fought The Man, and so on. Looking for anything to do with my mom’s-Mary’s- death, while all the while stirring up generic trouble because they’re dicks and I’m a dick. As time went on, though, I just got tired. Tired of the revenge, tired of the job, tired of heaven. So for the next couple years, I spent my time trying to zap down to earth. Obviously, I found a way, or else I wouldn’t be here now.

“I tried to convince Sammy to join me, but he was scared, at first. Kid was always more devout than me, that’s for sure,” Dean says with a fondness tinged by sorrow. “He made trouble in his own way, but for the most part, he was a good little angel. I don’t really know how to explain it, Cas, but my brother, he kind of _is_ stardust. He’s all wonder and curiosity and empathy. Man, I laughed at him for the vessel he crafted, but you know what he said? He wanted eyes that could express the love he felt for humanity, eyes that people would trust and feel safe by looking into them. I always teased him, that he chose to be so tall because he was overcompensating, but he fucking turned that into something awesome as well. He’s gigantor because he likes to be able to see as far as possible, to always be on the lookout to help someone in need. He’s so friggin strong because it allows him to help others. And, shit, you know what he chose to infuse his vessel with? You’re not gonna believe this. _Books_. Books and fabric softener and hot chocolate and mercy and faith. Don’t even ask me how he managed to wire those last two, because the kid’s a friggin genius and, as you know, he basically has the whole system up there rigged.

“What do you mean, _infused_?” Castiel asks, a relevant thought snorting awake somewhere in the back of his mind.

“Like, our essence, sort of,” Dean flaps his hands in a helpless gesture. “You know how you just associate some people with certain thoughts, or feelings, or whatever? Like, maybe when some kids think of mom, they think of cookies baking or lavender, because she always had scented candles? Or how you might associate a season or weather with a certain mood?”

Castiel nods slowly. “Okay. I think I understand.” Then something occurs to him. “So does that mean every human has an essence?  Are they unique?”

Dean nods. “Some are very similar. Sometimes siblings are very close. Or best friends. Then again, I’ve also seen a lot of friends with completely opposite essences, so hey, you never know.”

He barks out a sudden laugh. “Oh, man, I once heard of an angel that decided to infuse his vessel with, I shit you not, bubblegum vodka, lube, and cosmopolitans.” He chuckles. “Most of us, yes, we’re mindless soldiers. But the crazy ones tend to be, y’know, pretty damn crazy.”

“What about you?” Castiel asks, and that stirring thought at the back of his mind perks up, sniffing the air. “What are you infused with?”

Dena rolls his eyes. “It’s nothing, really. I already told you the story about my eyes. Green like the earth, yada yada. Not very interesting.”

“But what else?” Castiel probes.

Dean shrugs his shoulders in an attempt at non-chalance, but Castiel isn’t fooled. This means a lot to Dean. It’s part of who he is.

He sighs. “Leather. Motor oil. A forest after a rainstorm. A rolling field of wheat under a blue Kansas sky….” He trails off, but he’s not done. It’s obvious.

“What else?” Castiel asks eagerly.

Dean rubs the back of his neck, obviously uncomfortable. Somewhere in the background, a timer beeps, letting Castiel know the clothes are done. They’ve probably been done for a while. He ignores it.

“Dean,” Castiel says gently, and puts a hand on Dean’s forearm. He thinks about the last time he did this, what feels like a million years ago. Back when he thought he could basically manipulate Dean into telling him anything, thought he had this whole thing under control.

Oh, how times change.

Dean sucks in a rush of air, and lets everything out in one big breath.

“I have freckles because they look like the constellations in the sky when I can look up at them from earth. Heaven doesn’t have a sky like that. Heaven doesn’t have a sky at all.  My hands are calloused because I appreciate hard work, and I like _touching_. Not creepy touching, just… touching. Physical sensation. Hedonistic, like you once said. This necklace that I wear-” and he pulls it out from where it’s been under his shirt, showing it to Castiel under the dim, fluorescent lights of the Laundromat in the middle of nowheresville. “Sam gave it to me. Always told me that it was his way of being around even when he couldn’t be. He loves humanity, loves earth. But he doesn’t _need_ it like I do. Because something else that’s infused in me, something that I never consciously put into my vessel, was this… nostalgia. For something I never had. Something that I’m looking for. That I’ve lost? That I’ve seen before? I’m not really sure. But after my mom’s death, this feeling, this _pull_ inside me was the next biggest reason for me spending so much time here. Because there’s something _here_ for me, Cas. Something here, on earth. I’ve just got to find it.” Dean’s last words are disturbingly pointed, so Castiel decides to gracefully ignore them. He wonders if Dean can see the awe in his face, because he feels like it’s leaking all over the floor.

Though he is still curious about… one more thing. One more thing he knows he shouldn’t ask, because it’s asking for Trouble with a capital T, though Castiel isn’t sure which kind of Trouble yet.

“So… if you can see human essence- or you could, anyway, when you were an angel… What’s my essence?”

Castiel doesn’t understand the etiquette yet. He doesn’t know if essences are personal things or if it’s just something angels learn to tolerate, but he doesn’t really care at the moment. After all, Dean shared not only the essence information with him, but the story about his family as well, and Castiel will be damned if that doesn’t count for something.

There is no way that Castiel is worried that Dean’s essence seems tailored almost specifically to him. Not worried at all.

At Castiel’s question, Dean runs his tongue over his teeth and bites his lip. Castiel’s cheeks grow hot and he looks away determinedly.

“You’re… different.” Dean admits, voice tinged with something Castiel is fairly certain is petulance. “I can’t get a very clear read off you. Even when I was all mojo’d up.”

Castiel raises his eyebrows. “Why not?”

Dean shrugs. “Guarded people are sometimes more difficult to read, but you aren’t quite the same flavor as your typical introvert. I can _feel_ your essence, I know it’s in there, but it’s like it’s… contained, I guess.

“Contained?” Castiel repeats dumbly, for lack of anything better to say.

Dean nods. “It’s contained like a nuclear reactor is contained. Man, I dunno what’s in there, I dunno what you’re hiding, but it’s something big.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Castiel snaps, harsher than he intended. He’s actually a little stung by the accusation- even though Dean said it anything but accusingly- since he’s already blurted out the biggest bombshell he could ever hope to contain. Compared to the big love declaration, there is nothing else Castiel can imagine that’s worth hiding.

“Okay, touchy,” Dean puts his hands up in a placating gesture.

“But, why can’t you see my essence?” Castiel asks insistently. And then another thought occurs to him. “Is my essence the equivalent of my soul?”

“Christ, Cas, keep it up with the hard hitting questions, why don’t you?” Dean huffs out a laugh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Man, I’m the angel in this relationship and I still don’t know everything, even though you seem to think otherwise.”

Castiel wrinkles his nose in distaste. “I’m asking you about what it means to be an angel, Dean. You are- were- an angel for millennia, I’m assuming. I don’t understand why you can’t answer questions about your own species.”

Dean levels a glare at him. “Oh, I dunno, superior human mammal king. Can you name all the bones in your body? Can you tell me how psychoanalysis works? Can you tell me how the brain processes emotion and senses and every other damn thing it does? Can you even tell me how digestion works? Because those are all _human_ things, Cas. C’mon, you’re a human. Tell me about your own species.”

It’s a fair point. They sit in silence, Dean frustrated and Castiel chastised, with only the whir of washers and dryers in the background.

“I don’t know about the first question,” Dean finally says, in a much more subdued manner. “As for the second one, well,” He smiles with no teeth, misery somehow quirking into a disturbing parody of a grin. “Angels don’t have souls. And since both humans and angels have essences, then no, souls are not the same thing as essences.”

“It’s your soul that determines if you go to heaven or hell,” Castiel states, muted, remembering a long ago angel-info session with Dean at his house.

Dean nods, bitter.

“And you said you don’t know where angels go when they die,” He continues, feeling a kind of dull horror aching its way through his chest.

“Yep.”

Before Castiel met Dean, he didn’t even believe in god. He’s still fairly sold on that belief (or lack thereof). But to learn that Dean has no soul (even if Castiel never really gave them much though before the whole god squad debacle) strikes such a human, empathetic core in him that he never knew he had, and before he knows it, his hand is on Dean’s knee, and he’s trying-god, is he trying- to comfort, even though he doesn’t really know how. Dean looks down at Castiel’s hand on his knee, and his eyes are misty and he swallows heavily, and he leans slightly into Castiel’s side, lets Castiel hold him up. Just a little bit.

They sit like that for a while, in a soft silence that hopefully eases the sharp edges of Dean’s bitterness. Eventually, Dean sighs and goes to the dryer to fetch their clothes. Soon enough, they’re back in the Impala, back to the motel, and Dean is in his bed and Castiel is in his, even though one bed is easily big enough for the both of them.

Castiel doesn’t really know what a soul is. But he knows he has one. It’s some sort of instinct, he reasons. Something ingrained into all humans, that no one even realizes until it’s called into question.

He tries to imagine life without a soul, and he can’t. He wonders if it’s colder.

But Dean isn’t cold. Out of the two of them, it is Castiel who would be described as soulless. Emotionless, a shell, hollow. Dean is solid and full and glowing in a way that Castiel could only ever hope to palely imitate, a flashlight next to a supernova.

Castiel is so small and Dean is so big. He is worth something. He is worth so much. He _feels_ so much. And yet somehow Castiel is the one who ended up with a soul.

If Dean doesn’t have a soul of his own, Castiel finally decides, he is welcome to share his. Maybe that would make both of them feel a little less lonely.

***

 It’s amazing how Castiel can still manage to be embarrassed by late night warm and fuzzy thoughts, even if he never voiced any of them to Dean. Because in the harsh light of morning, as he wakes up and thinks about his thought process from last night, he kind of wants to cringe.

But another part of him just looks at those thoughts, shrugs, and says, _yeah, so_? _You’re in love with the guy, right? Aren’t you supposed to be having these thoughts_?

And maybe that’s the question Castiel should be asking, because he really has no baseline, here. He’s never been close to a person in his life, and then suddenly Dean literally fell into it, turning everything upside down and inside out. He isn’t the same Castiel he was all those weeks ago, because that Castiel wouldn’t look over fondly at Dean sleeping in the other bed, eyes gone soft and chest swelling with tenderness.

It’s scary. It’s really fucking scary, because not only does Castiel have to navigate these feelings for Dean, but it’s like he has to do so using a completely different map than he had before. It’s a new set of eyes that sees things differently, a mouth that words don’t taste the same in. And the worst part is, the old Castiel is never coming back. It’s impossible.

It’s not even like Castiel particularly liked his old self. It’s more of a matter of it being the only thing he’s ever known, and, as a human, he’s instinctively afraid of change.

He’ll definitely be the first to admit that there have been a lot of changes in his life lately.

He stares at the cracked motel ceiling, pictures the whole thing collapsing and coming down on him. Deep sigh. Nothing has happened between him and Dean for weeks, and yeah, it didn’t surprise him when he dropped the L-bomb that Dean just kind of clammed up. Dean is a self-proclaimed fan of one night stands and things that don’t involve commitment, and it’s not like Castiel is exactly a fan of any kind of commitment, either.

So they find themselves in an awkward limbo that involves blue balls much more often than Castiel would like.

But other than all the soul-crushing angst and existentialism and philosophizing, life is okay. Aside from the looming apocalypse and Dean’s ever-waning (mostly waned) grace and angels wanting Castiel to actually launch the first nuke on judgement day, life is okay.

Life is horrifically confusing, but it’s okay.

***

In typical movie-like serendipity, however, as soon as Castiel determines that life is okay (relatively), it becomes very much not okay again very soon after.

They’re in another town that Castiel doesn’t know the name of, walking home from a diner that Castiel doesn’t remember the name of, and Dean is in the middle of a tirade about a movie Castiel didn’t catch the name of.

“I swear, Cas, it’s like this spoof of action movies, but it’s still a great movie in its own right, y’know? They make fun of all the dumb shit in action movies, and then go ahead and pull the same dumb shit, and somehow that makes it even more awesome. And there’s this gag about ice cream-” And then someone is launched out of the alley beside them, stopping them in their tracks.

Dean whips around, like he’s about to go ahead and get involved, but Castiel stays him with a hand around his wrist. Dean looks at him with wide eyes, and Castiel shakes his head slightly. Dean can fight, sure, but whatever threw that guy out of the alley is a lot stronger than a normal human, and Dean is basically a normal human nowadays.

“Do you have any weapons on you?” Castiel asks quietly, as they hear footsteps nearing them from the alley.

Dean nods slowly. “Silver knife and pistol.”

“Perhaps you should be wielding them now, then.”

The footsteps continue, and then a large, encroaching shadow follows them, cast against the alley wall. Dean and Cas shuffle slowly around, trying to get a glimpse of whatever this thing is. The man that got thrown into the street is a motionless lump beside them. The street lamp in front of the alley is flickering and buzzing angrily, and the footsteps grow louder. Dean is tense at Castiel’s side, knife glinting in the moonlight.

The figure finally steps into the light of the streetlamp, and Dean and Castiel stare.

“Ah!” The figure shouts out, obviously pleased. “Glad I finally caught up to you muttonheads!”

He’s shorter than both Dean and Castiel, with shoulder length brown hair. His stance is easy, but his eyes are shrewd.

Dean and Castiel share a confused look.

“Who the hell are you?” Dean asks, brandishing his knife. “ _What_ the hell are you?”

The man turns his gaze to Dean. “Huh. You really are drained of your juice, Dean. Or maybe you just have a really bad memory.”

His eyes swivel to Castiel, and there’s a spark of something that looks like recognition there, though that’s impossible. Even more impossible is the snap of sorrow that flashes across the man’s face. His feature’s clear almost immediately, though, and his arms are held out wide.

“Castiel!” He crows, delight coloring his call. “Good to see ya!” He steps forward, and then he’s suddenly in front of Castiel, smirk on his face. “Excuse me for just one sec, gentlemen,” He says, stepping towards the crumpled man on the ground beside them. With a snap of his fingers, the lump is gone, and the short man is all smug satisfaction, now.

“Gabriel,” He introduces himself, clapping both Dean and Castiel on the shoulder. “How’s it hangin’, guys?”

“Oh, yeah, y’know, it’s pretty great. Mild weather, nice locals. My burger was a little overcooked, but no harm done,” Castiel answers acidly, really not in the mood for this shit. To be honest, he’s never really in the mood for this shit, and he has to deal with stuff like this from Dean often enough.

Gabriel appraises him with a raised eyebrow.

“Gotta say,” He says cheerfully, “I was _not_ expecting you to be this… _high school_ , dearest Cassie.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” Dean barks, at the same time Castiel asks, “How do you know our names?”

Gabriel shoots Dean a pointed look, like they’re in on some inside joke.

“Dean.” He says, matter-of-fact. “My name is _Gabriel_. I know you’re not up to date on your angel hierarchy knowledge, but maybe you should show me just the _teeniest_ bit of respect.” He holds his thumb and index finger just a millimeter apart. “ _This_ much, all I ask,”

“I- holy shit,” Dean breathes, eyes wide. Castiel looks between the two of them, completely lost.

“Archangel,” Dean says faintly, and Castiel feels his eyebrows raise.

“Gabriel, the archangel who ran away?” Castiel feels the need to clarify.

“Yeah,” Dean says quietly, though he seems to be getting over his awe pretty fast now, and it’s quickly turning into suspicion.

“So, what, you just take off thousands of years ago and come find me and Cas in a random alleyway in small town America to, what? Shoot the shit?”

“Yes, that’s exactly the kind of respect I was talking about, Dean. Gold star for you. However,” And his eyes find Castiel’s again, and he waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I wasn’t here for you, Dean-y boy. At least, not specifically. “

Castiel’s mind goes quiet for a minute, and then it suddenly explodes with a cry of _too much_ , and he’s off on one of his rants that are his equivalent to a heart to heart.

“Enough with the goddamned _angels_!” He shouts, hands fisted in his hair as he starts to pace. “What the _fuck_ do you want with me? I can’t even eat dinner anymore without you assholes showing up and I am just _so_ tired of it all. I have nothing to give you, nothing special to offer. Get out of my head, get out of my dreams, get out of my fucking life, _please_.

And I am not starting the apocalypse for you,” He adds as an afterthought, chest heaving.

Gabriel and Dean are both staring at him, and it reminds him of those scenes in TV shows when the protagonist says something really loud in a public place just as everybody else shuts up.

“Oooooh-kay,” Gabriel says finally, patting Castiel awkwardly on the shoulder. “Honestly, Cassie, you’re a lot angstier than I pictured. Hopefully we can beat it out of you.

“Besides,” He tacks on, as if he had almost forgotten, “I’m here to help you two knuckleheads. Castiel, wasn’t it you who said, just a while ago, that you thought it would be a good idea to enlist me and Balthazar? What, are you getting cold feet already?”

Castiel takes a stunned step back. “How did you-?”

Gabriel waves a hand dismissively. “A magician never reveals his tricks, kiddo.”

Dean takes a step forward as Castiel takes one back, effectively putting himself between Castiel and Gabriel. Gabriel notices, and puts on a mocking “ _awww_ ” face.

“Aren’t you two just adorable,” He coos.

“Can it, feathers,” Dean snaps. “How about you just spell it out for us, okay? Like we’re five. What’s the deal here?”

Gabriel puts a hand over his heart, feigns hurt. “Why, Dean, can’t you just believe that I’d want to help out a fellow angel? A fellow, _fallen_ angel?” And there’s the pointed words and eyebrow quirk again.

Dean snorts dismissively. “Yeah, I don’t think so. I’m not too keen on trusting anyone these days, to be honest with you.”

“Yeah, yeah, gotta protect the goods and all, I understand,” Gabriel says, nodding towards Castiel. “Look, maybe we should take this conversation somewhere a little more private?” He asks, even though it isn’t really a question. With a snap of his fingers, they’re in easily the cheesiest motel room that Castiel’s ever had the displeasure of laying his eyes on. The ceiling is one big mirror, and the bed is huge and heart shaped, with velvet covers and throw pillows. The carpet beneath his feet is shaggy and dark, probably to hide any stains. Heavy curtains are draped all over the room, and it smells like stale sex and alcohol. Castiel wrinkles his nose.

“Ah!” Gabriel breathes out in obvious satisfaction. “Home sweet home!” And he launches himself onto the bed, sliding into the mess of pillows like they’re bowling pins he’s determined to knock down, getting lost amongst dirty lace and fabrics with cringe-worthy stains on them.

“Um,” Castiel murmurs into Dean’s ear, while Gabriel is busy righting himself. “Are you sure this is Gabriel, one of the only six archangels in existence?”

“Seven!” Gabriel calls out from under his pile.

“Yeah,” Dean answers, ignoring Gabriel’s comment. “Once he revealed himself to me, I could tell. He’s the real deal. Welcome to Heaven’s best and brightest, Cas. Hopefully it doesn’t tarnish your opinion of us too badly.”

Castiel snorts, and looks for a place to sit down. None of it looks too sanitary, though, so he opts to just stand awkwardly around instead. Dean obviously feels the same way, because he stays by Castiel’s side.

Once Gabriel’s fully propped up against the pillows, he gives his legs a little wiggle, and a lollipop appears in his mouth.

“Alright, guys,” He claps his hands, “Let’s talk business.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Castiel learns the definition of "relationship" and that exposition is not his friend.
> 
> Also, Gabriel pulls a "Jason X" and the gang heads to space.

“Balthazar will be around eventually,” Gabriel informs them easily, “But I think he’s off having an orgy somewhere.” At the vague look of distaste on Dean and Castiel’s faces, he laughs and moves on to less disquieting topics, and more apocalyptic ones.

“So, Dean, I know you have a problem with heaven and all its big boy bosses upstairs, but obviously, I ain’t one of ‘em. So leave your prejudice at the door. All our asses are on the line, and I would very much like to make it out of this alive, so I think it’s in everyone’s best interests here that we work together.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean spits out, “How about you tell us what the fuck is going on first, and then we’ll decide whether or not to help you.”

For the first time, Gabriel seems shocked.

“You haven’t figured it out yet?” He asks, eyebrows reaching for his hairline.

Dean rolls his eyes aggressively, and Castiel never knew eye rolls could be aggressive.

“I wouldn’t be asking otherwise, short stop.”

Gabriel’s eyes narrow slightly at the threat, and dark mirth plays along the line of his mouth.

“Well, then, it’s a good thing we’ve got time to kill, boys, because I’d like you to see something.”

Except Castiel doesn’t see anything at all, because he feels his vision start to tunnel and a rushing fills his ears, and before he knows it, he’s down for the count.

***

Castiel wakes to the feeling of an engine rumbling beneath him, and what sounds like someone speaking through a really bad speaker phone.

“And if you’ll look to our left, you’ll see the creation of time. Yes, the creation of time! Quite the spectacle, if I do say so myself.”

“Are you fucking kidding me,” comes Dean’s voice somewhere to Castiel’s left, flat and unimpressed, but with something simmering just beneath.

“You wanted answers, Deano,” the speaker crackles with static, and Castiel grimaces at the screeching. “It’s exposition time, so sit down and shut up.”

“Fuck this,” Dean grouses, and Castiel opens his eyes and sits up fully. There’s a major kink in his neck, and he’s sitting on a really uncomfortable plastic seat. He glances around himself, and Gabriel is at the front of the car, wearing an ugly orange uniform and a ball cap with a speaker attached to it, like a tour guide on those ridiculous bus tours of historical landmarks or haunted houses or something.

“Maybe some other time, big boy,” Gabriel says cheerfully, and with a flick of his wrist, Dean is back in the seat next to Cas, stewing visibly.

“Oh, hi Castiel! Glad to see you’re back with us.” Gabe chirps, flapping a hand in greeting in Castiel’s direction.

Castiel puts a hand on his neck, trying to massage the kink out. “Where are we?” He asks, looking out the window beside him.

And then he closes his eyes, opens them again. Because he can’t believe what he’s seeing. There’s no way that—

“We’re in space,” Dean informs him. “We’ve been Magic School Bus-ed and Ms. Frizzle has gone off her meds.”

“I-“ Castiel starts, but Gabriel interrupts, the crackling speaker jarring every time Castiel hears it.

“Not really,” Gabriel says. “Trust me, if I launch you into space, you’ll know.”

“You know that we’re literally a couple feet away from you, right?” Dean asks, like he’s really not sure if Gabriel is aware. “You don’t need the mic.”

Gabriel shrugs. “Sorry. It’s a job requirement.” He spreads his hands out, in a _whatcanyado_ gesture.

“The fuck are you talking about, job requirement?”

“Hey, I’m not the one who makes the rules, kiddo.”

“You’re an archangel, which means, yeah, actually, you are.”

“Fair point. Okay, then, I’m saying that there’s a rule where I have to use my mic all the time.”

“What?! Why the f-”

“Um,” Castiel interrupts loudly, his nose practically pressed against the glass. “Not to interrupt your very important conversation, but if we aren’t in space, then where the hell are we?”

“See, now there’s a question I can answer!” Gabriel crows, walking towards them on the space bus ( _space bus_? _Seriously_?) He points out a window, at some random collection of stars a crapload of lightyears away. “Think of it as heaven’s green screen,” He explains flippantly. “So make sure not to clash with the scenery or else you’ll find yourself with a nebula for a torso.”

Castiel’s head is swimming. Angels, demons, apocalypse, sure. Is he really going to draw the line at space bus?

He sighs and settles in for whatever the hell Gabriel must have planned for them. Evidently, he’s not drawing lines yet.

When Gabriel sees the submission, he waggles his eyebrows and shoots off back to the driver’s seat. “Glad you’re on board, Cassie.”

Dean shoots him a Look, but Castiel ignores it. But then Dean elbows him in the rib and hisses in his ear, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“We’re on a _space bus_ , Dean. Look, it’s not like we have a chance against Gabriel anyways, and he said he wanted to help us. And he’s right, I thought it would be a good idea once upon a time to enlist his help, so we may as well hear him out. It’s not like we have anywhere else to go.”

Dean sits back and contemplates Castiel, chagrined.

“How did you become the level headed one in this situation?” He asks, not expecting an answer.

“I’ve kind of had to deal with a lot of shit flying at my face lately,” Castiel answers anyways. “I’ve had to adapt.”

Dean rolls his eyes and adjusts his sleeves grumpily, but Castiel knows he’s made his point.

“Okey dokey!” Comes Gabriel’s voice from up front, magnified by the gross mic. “Now that we’re done with the domestics, are you two ready to talk shop?”

“We were ready to talk shop back on earth, douche wad,” Dean replies.

“We _are_ on earth, _douche wad_ ,” Gabriel retorts, and actually turns around to stick his tongue out at Dean. “I told you, we aren’t actually in space.”

“Can we just get to the point?” Castiel cuts in, having had enough of Dean and Gabriel bickering to last him a lifetime, and they’ve barely known each other for more than an hour. He feels disturbingly like a parent at play-group prying apart fighting children, and wants to dissolve that idea as quickly as possible.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gabriel is still sucking on the lollipop, and with a great crunch, he bites the rest of it off and flicks the stick off into the nether somewhere. Castiel suddenly has visions of great trash dumps at the end of the universe for all the shit angels must smite daily.

“Okay, all aboard the exposition train?” Gabriel makes sure to look at both of them, and waits patiently for them to nod. When they do, he mimes pulling a great hanging lever, calls out, “Choo choo!” with an alarming amount of gusto, and they’re off.

“Alright,” Gabriel narrates, the scenery outside the windows of the bus changing. “So I have a bit of a story to tell you first. A nice little ditty that even you, Dean Winchester, purveyor of retro porn and even more retro angelic legends, would never have heard.”

“How the hell did you know-”

“About the porn?” Gabriel smirks, dropping his narrator’s voice for the moment. “Let’s just say I have more than one vessel, and they may have done their fair amount of _leg work_ , if you know what I mean, back in the day.”

Dean’s horrified expression even manages to pull a laugh out of Castiel, and he quickly turns it into a cough when Dean looks at him.

“Besides, Dean, archangel, remember?” He winks, and then it’s like a switch is flipped, and he’s back to velvet smooth narration.

“Anyways, back in the day- way back in the day- God was kind of lonely. See, he’d created this whole big earth, and golly gee, he had no one to share it with. But first, he needed beings who would carry out his orders, no questions. Think of it as dad’s contingency plan.”

They’re rolling through a field of light green grass now, soft blue skies stretching out as far as the eye can see.

“Is this Kansas?” Dean asks, peering out the window with a startling intensity.

“Yeah, no. At this point in time, there’s exactly zero political boundaries, genius. We aren’t anywhere except earth.”

“Anywho!” Gabriel continues as if the interruption never happened. “God created angels first. And for those celestial beings among us, does anyone know who the first angel was?”

“Lucifer.” Dean states, flatly, and Castiel remembers Sam telling him about it in one of their many crappy hotel rooms over the past little while.

“Bingo! And we all know the story of good ol’ Luci, right?”

Dean and Castiel nod warily.

“Good. Because we aren’t going there yet. Y’see, Lucifer is basically patient zero in terms of angels. He was the first experiment, when daddio didn’t quite get it right the first time round. He was defective, he didn’t listen to orders, he had a mind of his own, blah blah blah. He wasn’t what god wanted. So dad took all his case notes, learned from his mistakes, and created the Seven.”

The sky outside the bus disappears, and it feels like they’re floating in nothingness. Dark, pure nothingness. It feels kind of like when the television is left on one of those stations that are pure static, and the sound is just loud enough to tickle the edges of your senses.

“Seven archangels, dad’s oldest. Dad’s first real success.”

“Six.” Dean says. “There’s only six archangels.”

Gabriel just smirks at him and keeps going.

“Anyways, after that, humans were created. And we all know Luci didn’t like humans that much. Long story short, dad liked the new babies a lot more than us, and big bro got jealous and ran away in the middle of the night.”

Lightning cracks outside the vehicle now, forks of it tearing their way across the sky, leaving burning ozone in their wake. Thunder is rumbling ominously all around them.

“Wanna can it with the light show?” Dean complains. “We get it, Gabe, no need for the dramatic effects.”

“It’s my tour,” Gabriel says simply, and Dean huffs.

“Like I was saying,” Gabriel goes on, “Luci took off once humans showed up. But see, this is the part that’s left out of the history books. He didn’t leave empty handed.”

Dean’s eyebrows shoot up in perfect timing with the ridiculously loud thunderclap that shakes the bus violently.

Gabriel pauses, as if waiting for one of them to ask, savoring the sweetness of being able to give them the answers they’re obviously _dying_ to know.

Castiel decides to bite the bullet, and says, in his most patronizing voice possible, “Why, _Gabriel_ , what on earth did he take with him?”

“Thanks for asking, Cassie! But the thing is, Luci didn’t take anything from earth. He stole something from heaven.” He pauses, places his index finger on his chin. “Or, I suppose I should say he _kidnapped_ some _one_ from heaven.”

Castiel glances at Dean, and he actually seems interested now. His gaze is intense and thoughtful at the same time, and Castiel feels a twinge of unease nip at him.

“The thing is, boys,” Gabriel explains, “Or, Cas, anyways, since I’m sure you-” He gestures vaguely in Dean’s direction- “are already aware, angels crave company. The archangels are all connected, and we’re able to communicate with those lower on the hierarchy if we’re so inclined. And all you guys, obviously-” Again, he flaps his hand in Dean’s direction, “can communicate with each other, so you’re never alone.”

Castiel wonders briefly how being cut off from the Host is effecting Dean, since he’s never mentioned anything about it.

“Luci, though,” Gabriel smiles thinly, and it’s fragile and prone to shatter at any moment, “If he isn’t the loneliest angel I ever seen. He can’t connect with the archangels. Can’t connect with the grunts. He’s stuck in the friggin’ Cage somewhere in hell, or maybe hell-adjacent, no one can really remember anymore. Dad may have messed my brother up royally, but he got one thing right about him. The crippling co-dependency.” The scene outside changes again, and they’re drifting through space once more, planets of every color and size drifting by lazily.

“And that’s why Luci grabbed whatever he could stash in his cape before he took off. He acted just like anyone else would have when they’re losing everything they’ve ever known.” He stops the story for a moment and swallows hard. They’re underwater now, probably the last couple meters before the light from the surface gets choked off for good.

“Why do I suddenly get the impression that you feel bad for the guy?” Dean asks suspiciously.

Gabriel’s face hardens up in an instant. “Oh, I dunno, because he’s my _brother_?” He cuts out, sharp as glass. “And he’s yours, too, you know.”

Dean scoffs. “Not really.”

“He’s just as much your brother as Sam is,” Gabriel informs him unapologetically.

Dean actually stands up. “Don’t fucking think you know what you’re talking about,” Dean snaps. “Sam is my brother by choice, not some weird fucking shared mind meld or whatever.”

It’s completely dark outside the bus now, but Castiel has the distinct impression that they’re still underwater. He can almost feel the sides caving in under the water pressure of Gabriel’s seething.

“I never shared the mind meld with Lucifer, either,” Gabriel reminds him, and it’s a solid whump. Dean blinks it away, though, and in the next second he’s storming up the aisle, finger in Gabriel’s face.

“Yeah, well, we’re family too, _Gabe_ , and you’ve had no problem jerking me around today, so excuse me if I don’t suddenly buy into all your Brady Bunch crap.”

Gabriel pushes Dean’s finger out of his face calmly, but the pressure on the walls hasn’t lessened.

“You are all my family, Dean. In fact, we’re more alike than you’d care to admit. However, I care about all the angels, including Lucifer. You only care about a very select few, and then would have no problem damning the rest. So out of the two of us here, do you really think _you_ should be lecturing _me_ on the importance of family?”

It’s a tense moment, and Castiel’s eyes are wide and alert, going between Dean and Gabriel like he’s at a tennis match that no one brought a ball to. They’re just staring at each other, a stand-off.

Eventually, Dean looks away, jaw tight and shoulders stiff. Without a word, he sits next to Castiel again, and Castiel feels the pressure outside lessen, to his great relief.

“So, who did Lucifer take?” Castiel prompts, even though he really only says it to break the silence currently settling over them. He’s not sure if he can take an awkward moment with both an angel and archangel who were just about to whip out the rulers.

And then just like that, a switch is flipped, and they’re completely out of the water, rumbling down a rain soaked city street.

“Ah, but that’s the best part!” Gabriel says, back to his cheery old self, though Castiel sees a few street lamps fritz out as they pass. “Save that for the end.”

“But what I will say now, is that he took an archangel. One of the original Seven. It was the last archangel created, and it was just in its infancy. Basically, Lucifer totally, _literally_ , robbed the cradle. That’s what I meant about being lonely, earlier.” He explains. “To lay it out for you, Lucifer didn’t want to rule hell alone. He wanted a companion. But, what Lucifer, and I think to an extent, dad, didn’t expect, was how hard that archangel would fight. Because he was a slippery one, a real Houdini with the cuffs. He managed to undo those knots, and boom, he was out of there.” Gabriel shrugs. “ _If_ the legend can be believed, of course.”

“So, the archangel clawed its way out of hell, basically. Most think he died in the attempt, but hell, even heaven has its gossips. But that doesn’t change the fact that the angels felt his grace wane. As the years went on, it grew fainter and fainter, and eventually winked out entirely. They all mourned, dad especially. But more angels were created, and they moved on. Some still think that our sibling is kicking, though. Some still have faith in the little tree topper.”

He says it with the air of someone finishing their story, and Castiel almost expects him to bow or something equally ridiculous.

“Um.” Castiel says, “that was a great story and all, but how exactly is it going to help us?”

“What, you mean in your grand scheme to pull the plug on Armageddon? It’s not.”

Castiel sputters. “Then what the hell did we just sit through your goddamed Willy Wonka boat ride for?”

Gabriel huffs. “There’s an epilogue, dearest Cassie, if you’d care to hear it.”

“…oh.”

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, any day now would be nice.”

“Fine.” And finally, _finally_ , Gabriel ribs off his mic and tosses it into the nether space, presumably to follow along with the sucker stick from earlier.  Castiel glances out the window, and is extremely glad to find himself back in the porn star suite they originally started in, suddenly not in the bus at all.

“Jesus,” he mumbles, hit with a quick dizzy spell.

“Oh, yeah, sorry about that,” Gabriel doesn’t sound like he’s very sorry. “Think of it as the interstellar version of jet lag.”

Dean immediately moves forward and puts a light hand on Castiel’s back.

“You okay?” He asks, concerned.

“Yeah, m’fine.” Castiel shakes Dean’s touch off as least dick-like as he can, and casts the desk chair a dubious look before collapsing into it. He’s suddenly, thoroughly tired, and wants nothing more than to sleep for a year or two.

“Okay, Gabriel, what’s the damn epilogue,” Castiel asks with closed eyes, wanting this over with as soon as possible.

“Well,” Gabriel hedges, drawing out the word much longer than anyone should ever draw it out. “That’s the thing. We’re kind of living it. Right now.”

Castiel cracks one eye open. “What.”

“Okay, so The Seven are pretty damned power as individuals, but as a whole? They basically rival god. That was another one of god’s contingency plans, I’d say. Along with being his first children, they’d also be his board of directors. Two birds with one stone kind of deal. And after the whole shebang with Noah, I’d say he made the right decision.

“But of course, once the last archangel got kidnapped by Lucifer, that power was cut. They all had their individual abilities, but they couldn’t ever measure up to god again. And then I took off, and Balthazar ran after me, which sapped their juice even more.

“And that’s the thing about having a board of directors, isn’t it? You need someone to stand up to you when you propose really shitty ideas, which leads me to believe The Seven are just a little bit less soldier-y than the other angels.

“And that brings us to the problem at hand,” Gabriel concludes. “Because we all know what they say about absolute power. With more free will than the other angels, The Seven were obviously a little miffed that their power reserves were draining so fast. First, their sibling gets kidnapped almost right off the bat, and then two more disappear, leaving only four left.

“I’m sure you can suss out their endgame from here, but for the slow kids, I’ll spell it out. They want The Seven reunited. They want the power again. You know how people say we’re living in a godless age? Well, gents, The Seven want to change that.”

Castiel has a headache.

“Okay then,” Dean says, “is that it? Are we all caught up?”

“You betcha.”

“Okay, well, you’re one of The Seven,” Dean points out. “So is Balthazar.”

“Your point being?” Gabriel asks. “They outnumber us. They’ll find us eventually.”

“Why wait until now to search you out? I mean, it’s been millennia.” Dean crosses his arms, expectant.

Gabriel sucks in a breath. “Because they didn’t see the point without our seventh. We could never be what we were without our final brother.”

“So if they want you now,” Dean puzzles out, “that must mean…”

Gabriel nods solemnly. “Yep. They found the last piece.”

Something about Gabriel’s phrasing sends alarm bells ringing in Castiel’s head.

“Who was the seventh archangel?” Castiel chokes out of a suddenly dry mouth.

Gabriel directs a pitying stare at him.

“There’s Michael, Raphael, Uriel, Zachariah, Balthazar, myself, and… Cassiel.”

“Castiel?” Dean blurts out, eyes darting between Castiel and Gabriel so quickly it looks like they might roll out of his head.

“No, dimwit, _Cassiel_.”

“Oh…” Dean looks dubious, and Castiel feels the stirrings of something _very bad_ start to uncurl in his stomach. “Well then who the hell is Cassiel?”

Gabriel looks somewhat chagrined. “Actually, Dean, maybe you shouldn’t have holstered that shocked face so quickly. You too, Cassie.”

“… why not?” Castiel asks, the stirrings turning into churnings. The back of his throat is starting to burn. He knows. He doesn’t want to, but he _knows_.

Gabriel actually softens around the edges, which is more than enough to get Castiel’s guard way, _way_ up. It’s like he actually feels bad about something.

“Because Castiel is actually a little known translation of Cassiel,” He says quietly. “Cassiel is Hebrew, whereas Castiel is English.”

There’s one of those really dramatic pauses you only see in the movies, and then--

“I don’t understand,” Castiel says faintly, even though he completely goddamned does. Suddenly, with a bright cut of clarity, he realizes where the fuck he wants to draw the line, and it’s actually right _here_.

“Sorry, kiddo,” Gabriel says quietly. “Welcome to the club.”

***

This wasn’t how Castiel thought his life would go.

He had expected a lonely, miserable, depressing little life that may or may not have included copious amounts of drugs and alcoholism.

And yet what he got was the Judeo-Christian apocalypse and a major promotion in the god squad.

It’s so fucking far out of left field, so exactly what Castiel _didn’t_ expect, that he’s not even sure it can be called ironic.  Or maybe that’s the point.

The thing is, Castiel shouldn’t believe him. It’s insane. Absolutely, tin-foil-hat-wearing insane. There is no way he’s an angel. No way he’s a friggin archangel. No way he’s anything more than a dumbass kid who stumbled into something way bigger than himself by accident.

Except Castiel does believe. As soon as Gabriel said it, as soon as he figured it out himself, he could feel the sense of right thrumming through him, a rush like white water rapids. No wonder no one could ever say his name properly, because it was never his name to begin with.

“I don’t believe you,” Castiel chokes out, because even if he does, what else is he going to say? 

Gabriel clicks his tongue in sympathy. “Believe me or not, it’s true.”

Castiel flicks his eyes to Dean, who seems to be in the midst of some form of internal crisis.

“It’s ridiculous,” Castiel says quietly.

Gabriel smirks, but there’s no malice behind it, “No, it’s not. And you know it. You can feel it. I can tell.”

“But I’ve never- I mean, it’s not like I can go around smiting people,” Castiel protests. “I’ve never done anything close to angelic in my life.”

Gabriel shrugs. “You still have your grace, it’s just buried deep in there somewhere. You’ve never had the need to go looking for it until now.”

Castiel lets that sink in for a moment, and then another realization slaps him across the face.

“I’m _old_ ,” he blurts out, shocked. “Really old. I can’t remember anything, though.”

 _Guess I never have to worry about the age difference anymore_ , Castiel thinks somewhat hysterically.

“Your grace allowed you a kind of reincarnation. Every time one of your bodies died, you’d just be born into a new one.”

“I thought reincarnation wasn’t a part of Christianity,” Castiel says, though the fact that he’s hung up on this detail is a little ridiculous, considering all the other ridiculousness he’s dealt with today.

Gabriel snorts. “Christianity isn’t the only religion out there, little bro, and our god isn’t the only god. Truth me, we’ve gone through a dozen different belief system’s apocalypses already. It’s just our turn in the limelight.”

Castiel shakes his head slowly, because _whoa_.

“This is, um…” He puts a hand over his eyes, a little overwhelmed. “This is a lot to take in. I think I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting down,” Gabriel points out, not very helpfully.

“Oh. Right.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, revelations hanging heavy in the air between them.

“How you doin’ over there, Dean?” Gabriel asks eventually. It sounds like he’s plucked another lollipop out of the air, though Castiel hasn’t taken his hand off his eyes yet. He does glance at Dean, though, when Gabriel asks him.

His face is pretty bloodless, and it looks like his shoulders are made out of stone.

“I’m… working through it,” is the answer Dean gives through thin lips.

“Well you better work through it quickly,” Says a new voice in the room. A voice that makes Castiel’s blood run cold.

He’s out of his chair and by Dean’s side so fast, he may have teleported there. (And with the day’s revelations, it’s actually a possibility this time.) A fierce, albeit surprising, wave of protectiveness flashes through Castiel at the sight of Zachariah, accompanied by who he can only assume are the other archangels.

“Hello, Castiel,” Zachariah smiles in his smug way, and there’s a predatory glint in his eye. “Gabriel, Dean,” He greets the two others with barely a nod of his head. “Been a long time, brother,” Zachariah tosses casually Gabriel’s way.

“How did you find us?” Gabriel asks, disappearing and then reappearing by Castiel’s side.

Zachariah’s smirk grows more pronounced. “You ought to be more thorough about dispatching my help,” He informs them, and Castiel briefly flashes back to the man flying out of the alley courtesy of Gabriel earlier in the night. “Human help is… inadvisable, but sometimes you’ve just got to make due. After that, it wasn’t too hard to find you. It’s a small world, after all.”

“I kind of had my hands full,” Gabriel shrugs in a _whatcanyoudo_ gesture.

Zachariah huffs a laugh, and then starts as if he’s forgotten something. “Oh! Cassiel, I guess you’d like to be introduced to your brothers, now that Gabriel’s filled you in?”

Castiel just glares at him.

“Alright, then.” Zachariah gestures to a dark-skinned man, bald as a cue ball. “That’s Uriel.” Uriel doesn’t even so much as nod at Castiel, just fixes him with bland contempt. “That’s Raphael,” He gestures to the woman on his other side, in a slate grey suit with skin a shade lighter than Uriel’s. Her hair is straight and dark, and her gaze is less bland, and more contempt. “And this is Michael,” The man on the other side of Raphael is dressed much more like him and Dean compared to the suits of the other angels. He looks at Castiel more speculatively than anything else, but there’s an underlying intensity to his gaze. Michael gives Castiel a small, curt nod.

“It’s too bad Balthazar couldn’t be with us tonight,” Zachariah feigns disappointment. “This isn’t the family reunion Cassiel deserves.”

“Castiel.” Dean corrects him in a voice that’s hard as diamond.

Zachariah shakes his head. “I’m sorry, who invited you to this little get together?

“My invitation must have got lost in the mail,” Dean replies snidely, hands balling into fists at his sides. Castiel- god knows what’s come over him- touches Dean’s wrist out of view of the others in a silent, _back off_.

“He’s my plus one,” Castiel says, feeling very much like a cheeky protagonist in an action movie for a moment.

“Very well,” Zachariah allows. “But when you come with us, Cassiel, he won’t be able to come with you.”

“Where exactly am I going?” Castiel asks, trying to maintain the false bravado he’s currently holding on to. No dream shenanigans from Zachariah this time.

Zachariah exudes the eternal patience of a mother whose had to tell her kid for the umpteenth time that it’s not okay to throw their toys down the stairs, but it’s all fake, because Castiel can feel the hunger emanating from him like it’s a perfume.

“I already told you, Cassiel. You’re the last link. The one who will fulfill the prophecy.”

“Prophecy?” Castiel repeats stupidly. “What prophecy?”

Zachariah turns to Gabriel with an air of disapproval. “You never told him?”

“ _You_ never told him.” Gabriel retorts, in an extremely weird display of brotherly bickering.

Zachariah sighs, bone deep.

“Okay, boys, let’s talk shop.”

Oh god. More exposition.

***

Castiel’s head is going to explode. Too many words. Too many revelations. Too many fucking life changing explanations in one day. He’s not going to make it.

“Don’t you think, Cassiel, that it’s a little strange that not only are you heaven’s lost archangel, but Dean also managed to find you? The chances of that happening are so laughably small there’s no point in even thinking about it.” He holds out both arms towards Dean. “And yet it happened.”

“And don’t you think,” he repeats, “that’s it’s even more strange that you fell in love with this angel?” Castiel immediately finds his shoes interesting, but Zachariah soldiers on regardless. “The angel that just sauntered into your life unexpectedly, because before this, you were nothing special, nothing important? There was nothing about you to draw him in.” Castiel’s face is heating up and his insides are twisting insistently.

“But you became friends. _Best_ friends. After all these years of being completely alone, and then you get your own literal angel on your shoulder. And he falls in love with you. And you fall in love with him right back. Albeit, nothing was ever said about your mountain of intimacy issues, or Dean’s whole host of issues all his own, but you two are getting there. Making it work.”

Castiel’s ears are ringing, ringing, ringing. Sure, he loves Dean. And he knows Dean likes him well enough. But the fact that the feeling is returned? Castiel reassess his earlier decision, and decides, nope, _this_ is where he draws the line. Because he doesn’t believe it, not for a second. He refuses to look at Dean. Zachariah continues, oblivious.

“And let’s be real here, guys, you aren’t exactly compatible, are you? Dean, you’re hedonistic and so full of love and warmth and kittens that you’re practically leaking rainbows out your ears. And yet you cover it up with sarcasm and booze and sex because you’re so afraid of letting people in, of getting _burned_ again.” And his word choice, _burned_ , is enough to make Dean shake out of his stupor, because Zachariah is talking about the night his mother died, about the fire. The protectiveness flares up in Castiel again, and he has to hold both himself and Dean back, because he knows there’s no way they could ever hope to win this confrontation. Not at the moment.

“But you fell for Cassiel here so fast, it was almost unnatural. You fell for his… well, honestly, I don’t know, because his human form is definitely lacking in most respects. But you fell for him regardless. He didn’t even have to knock, and you just held the door open and invited him right on in. Trust me, Dean, we thank you for that, because it made our job much easier. Your capacity to love serves us well.”

“And you, Cassiel,” Zachariah leaves Dean, focuses on Castiel. “You’re prickly and sarcastic and so empty on the inside, so very much the opposite of Dean, here. I can see it, Cassiel. You’re lost and drifting, and all this time, you’ve been drifting towards us. This is your home, here. Not in those suburbs you hated, or in bed with this _thing_ here,” He says, nodding towards Dean without taking his eyes off Castiel’s. “You’re cold in a way Dean could never understand. You’re calculating and scientific about things. I mean, please,” He scoffs, “I can see, clear as day, your hesitance about this ‘ _relationship’_ ” he fingerquotes. “You’re observing it, like it’s a painting and you’re an art critique. You’re outside of it, Cassiel. You’re not a part of it, you were never a part of it. You’re _selfish_. You were the perfect angel without even realizing it.

“Besides,” He adds conversationally, with the air of someone who’s about to score the game winning goal, “Cassiel is the angel of observation. The angel of loneliness. It’s who you are, Cassiel. You were destined to be always on the outside, always alone. That’s why a part of you still wants to recoil whenever Dean puts his hands on you.”

He puts his hands out, in a gesture of solidarity. “But you won’t be alone when you’re with us, brother. We welcome you home.”

Castiel takes a half-step closer to Dean. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” He spits out in disbelief. Zachariah drops his arms, takes a step back, his fury evident in the tight lines of his face.

“The prophecy, Cassiel,” He says in a quiet, controlled voice, “is that the unification of heaven and earth will happen when the angel with the human name and the human with the angel’s name find each other. When that happens, we will be stronger than ever, and we _will_ be able to stop the apocalypse. We will strike Lucifer down, defeat hell for good.”

“But that doesn’t change the fact that it is all foretold, brother. You really think you would have fallen in love with this sack of crap bottom rung angel otherwise? It’s destiny, Cassiel. And now that you’ve fulfilled it, you can move on. You can come home.”

There’s not really a choice here. It’s either take off with the god squad, who obviously all got their A levels in bullshitting and recruitment, or stay here with Dean, his best friend, and face some pretty awkward music once every one else clears out. No competition.

“I don’t think so, _brother_.” Castiel says, and he doesn’t know if it’s the adrenaline, or just his own stupid display of loyalty, but he grabs Dean’s hand in defiance and intertwines their fingers. He sees wide green eyes on him out of the corner of his gaze, but he remains staring Zachariah down.

Gabriel exhales loudly from beside him, and announces, “Thank dad, I thought you were gonna listen to these mooks for a second there.” He claps Castiel on the shoulder and digs his fingers in, just a bit. “A head start would be a good idea, I think,”

And before anyone can say anything else, Castiel and Dean and are whizzing through space again, hands still interlocked.

***

They land none too gracefully in the parking lot with the Impala in it, and Castiel feels his knees buckles under him.

“Fuck,” he groans, and he hears Dean mutter a similar epithet next to him.

“Gabe probably didn’t have much time to calibrate our landing. At least he got us back to the car,” Dean says miserably, hauling himself to his feet.

He holds out his hand for Castiel, and Castiel grips it tight while Dean pulls him up.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and heads for the passenger door.

“So,” Dean says as he opens his door, drumming his fingers on the roof of the car. “I guess we have some things to talk about.”

“Perhaps we should do it on the road,” Castiel says pointedly. “Gabe only said it was a head start.”

Dean shakes his head, grimaces like he should have thought of that.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go,”

They peel out of the parking lot, and an awkward silence descends over the car. Castiel mulls over everything slowly, letting it churn thickly and swirl incoherently in his mind. There’s a ridiculous amount of information to process, and he’s not too keen to get started.

Not to mention the fact that he just got completely undressed by Zachariah, possibly the biggest douche in the world. Definitely not one of his finer moments.

Probably the worst thing- no, _the_ worst thing- Castiel decides, isn’t the fact that he’s an archangel. Isn’t the fact that he’s supposed to start the apocalypse. Isn’t the fact that he doesn’t even own his own name.

It’s the fact that it’s all fake.

This prophecy, this uniting of heaven and earth talk Zachariah was spouting. As much as Castiel hates the guy, it has some merit. Because really, what kind of person-angel- is he, that he can’t give a piece of himself to Dean the way any normal person would be able to? Zachariah was right, as much as he wants to rip his tongue out for even considering voicing the thought. Castiel can talk about love and write poems and press rose petals into diaries all he wants, but he’s still looking at it as though he’s on the wrong side of door, watching all the action unfold in front of him through a warped window. He gets the gist, sure, but kissing glass and kissing lips are worlds apart from each other.

The problem with this realization is that it’s just that- a realization.  The first step to recovery may be admitting you have a problem, but it doesn’t suddenly solve everything, and Castiel laments the fact that it took him this many years in the first place to even acknowledge that his problem was, well, a _problem_.

He’s scared of falling so hard for Dean, he’s scared of not being enough for Dean, and he’s scared of losing himself in Dean, and he’s _really_ scared that once he does that, it’ll all be ripped away.

And it hits him then, with a cold, animal clarity that he needs to protect himself. Even as his mind screams at him that this is exactly the opposite of productive, instinct isn’t just something that he can run away from, even though he’s convinced himself that he can run away from this, from this thing with Dean.

Of course, he also has to consider the fact that he shouldn’t even be in this position in the first place. He’s only here because a prophecy told him so. And that thought is a bitter pill to swallow, something that sours Castiel in a new and painful way. As if this whole mess wasn’t painful enough already, someone had to go and throw destiny into the pot as well.

And maybe it’s that that pushes Castiel into the realm of vocal chords again. He stares neutrally out the windshield, all too aware of Dean beside him.

“I just can’t be who you want, Dean.”

Dean startles a little and turns his head so fast Castiel briefly wonders if he could get a crick in his neck.

“What?”

“I’m someone different because of you. I can’t be myself when you’re here. You heard Zachariah. It’s destiny. It’s not real.”

Dean is staring at him now, eyes wide. It looks like he’s forgotten there’s a road in front of them.

“But it’s more complicated than that. It’s not just about the prophecy. In fact, it’s not really about the prophecy at all.” Castiel still isn’t looking at him, still determinedly looking out the windshield.

“I dunno the exact reason, not really. Because I’m not good enough? Because I’m afraid? Because I’m a coward? Because I just _can’t_? I can’t let you in like this, Dean. I can’t.”

“Yes you can,” Dean says, low, and it sounds like a promise.

Castiel shuts his eyes briefly, scrubs a hand over his jaw. A habit he picked up from Dean.

“No! I can’t. I’ve given so much of myself to you I don’t know how much I have left for me. I need it back, and even then. Even then I know it’ll be different. You’ll have made it- _me_ \- different.” Castiel’s chest is constricting, and he can feel tears start to squeeze out at the corners of his eyes. He tries his best to swallow past the lump in his throat.

“Change is a part of life, Cas,” Dean says softly, hesitantly, like he’s fighting off some emotion of his own.

“Yeah, I know. But I need to change on my own terms. Not someone else’s.”

“Haven’t I changed for you?” Dean asks. “I mean, Christ, you’ve heard my stories, Cas. I don’t… settle. You heard Zachariah… Oh, yeah, by the way, everything he said about me? Yeah, it’s fucking true. My feelings for you? The asshat wasn’t lying. It’s been that way for a long time.”

Castiel shakes his head miserably.

“I’ll tell you what I feel, because apparently that’s what I do now. I feel so empty, and yet so full at the same time. Empty of myself, full of you. I’m sad and happy and loving and hating and yearning and pushing away. I’m nostalgic and trailblazing and hungry and stuffed and real and fading away.” He’s burning, and it’s just getting worse. His skin is peeling off, layer by layer. “Oh, god. I used to love contradictions so much. I loved them in you. But then I became them. Became hot and cold. Became up and down. And I can’t anymore, Dean. I’m not the best or the worst. I’m just somewhere in the middle, average. I’m just me. And I can’t be me with you here.”

“Jesus, Cas, if you think I’m so great, doesn’t that mean I make you better?” Dean asks, half desperately and half snidely.

“You make me not me.” Brittle.

“Why can’t it just be you, but better?”

“Because I can’t be better.” Castiel answers, simple as can be.

Dean shakes his head and lets out a hollow laugh. “Fuck. This conversation is going in so many directions it’ll take years to work through, even with a goddamned map.” He sighs, and scrubs a hand over his face. “We can’t stop the car. We should be getting as far away from here as possible. But Cas, if I could stomp on the brake pedal for dramatic effect and launch you into the windshield to knock some sense into you, I would.”

Castiel stays quiet, unsure how to respond, though the itching at the corners of his eyes definitely isn’t a good sign.

They descend into quiet for a few minutes, Castiel feeling as vulnerable as if he just bled in a shark tank, and Dean looking for all the world like he’s trying to work himself up to say something.

Eventually, he comes out with a soft- much softer than Castiel was expecting- “so is that it? You’re done with me?” Then, hearing what it sounds like out loud, he barks out black laughter. “Goddamned do I sound like a friggin’ girl. We weren’t even together. At all.”

A mile marker races past the window, and despite the moving of the car, Castiel feels very still, suspended in time.

“It’s… complicated.” He finally hedges. “But it’s not about you, not really. It’s me.”

Dean nods resignedly. “Oh man, have I heard that one before. Though usually I’m the one delivering.”

“No, no,” Castiel shakes his head vehemently. “You don’t get it. I mean it’s literally all about _me_. This whole time, whatever… relationship we had – _have_ \- it was about _me_ , Dean.” It’s weird, because it’s easier to talk about his detachment to relationships than actually try and talk about the relationship itself, because that involves work, and it involves hurt and trust and emotions, things that Castiel has repeatedly proved himself not very good at, time and time again.

But then again, it’s not like this experience hasn’t already been painful. It’s not like it hasn’t already involved him putting an immense amount of trust in Dean, and investing an alarming amount of feelings into this relationship. It’s all so new, and even now, with everything that’s happened, with everything they have to deal with, a small part of Castiel just wants to scream and yell and throw its arms around Dean and pretend that everything is going to be alright.

But a much bigger part of him is scared.

“I don’t really feel like I’m in control here,” Castiel continues. “And I don’t know how to _not_ have control. Even though my life was a piece of shit before all this, I still could decide for myself. But then _you_ happened, and it felt like you were making the decision for me, like I had no say in the matter in whether I wanted to love you or not.

“And I do, Dean. I _do_ love you, prophecy or whatever be damned.” Because in this moment, it doesn’t matter _why_ Castiel loves Dean, only that he _does_. “But I’m scared.” He finishes in a much smaller voice than he started out with. “It’s something so big, and I’m just… small.”

Dean’s listened to Castiel’s whole speech without so much as a shake of the head to show what he’s feeling. So when he opens his mouth, and he’s warm and sympathetic, Castiel does a double take.

“I know what it feels like to feel worthless,” he confides, training his gaze out the windshield. A muscle ticks in his jaw. “I know what it’s like to feel small and like things are out of your control.

“Ever since my mom… ever since the fire. Because no matter what I do, no matter how much I want things to be different, they won’t ever be.

“You’re not alone, Cas,” Dean says, and a hesitant hand reaches out to the neutral zone between the two respective seats. Castiel stares at it a moment, and then intertwines his own fingers with it, warm. “I understand. And-” he stops, clears his throat. “If you’re willing, if it’s something you want, we can try.”

Castiel feels the tug in his heart, knows that the answer, hard as it is to give, has been decided long before he had any conscious realization of it being chosen.

“Yes,” he says, squeezing Dean’s hand. “Let’s try.” And he does try, so hard, to be here. To be _present,_ in this moment, with Dean. No more third person viewing, but full on, five senses, entire spectrum of human emotion, first person narrative. He tries.

***

They’re two states over, and ever since their little heart-to-heart, where Castiel suddenly found himself in some sort of real, human relationship, they’re still holding hands, a loose bundle of fingers interlocked on the seat between them. Neither of them has said anything else, and the romance novel levels are starting to grate at him, just a bit.

Christ, he said he’d try, but his hand is kind of sweating.

And he thinks about what trying means, and maybe it means being honest. So he’s honest.

“Dean, my hand is sweating,” he informs him.

Dean seems lost in his own thoughts, but he blinks and looks at Castiel, refocusing. “Hmm?”

“My hand. It’s sweating.”

Dean shifts his gaze down between them.

“Oh.” He chuckles and puts his hand back on the steering wheel.

Castiel sits back and wipes his palm on his pants. That wasn’t so hard. Baby steps, then.

“So we should probably check into a motel,” Dean says a couple miles later, and Castiel feels his stomach lurch. “I’m wiped.”

It’s about to get hard, he thinks.

And then he cringes at his choice of words.

***

Dean fiddles with the key card outside their motel room, tapping his thumb against it incessantly.

“We never even talked about the other things Zachariah said,” he says carefully, leaning against the door.

“What, you mean the fact that I’m actually an ancient archangel who got kidnapped by Lucifer after he got kicked out of heaven because he wanted me to rule hell with him?” Castiel snorts laughter. “God, it sounds even more ridiculous when you say it out loud.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth quirks up, but it’s not a happy thing. “Even after they told you, you still don’t remember anything?”

“Like being older than you? Having super awesome divine powers?” Castiel shakes his head. “Nope. Whatever angelic mojo I have inside me, I still don’t think I could run a mile without being winded.”

“Maybe there’s a trigger or something,” Dean theorizes, turning around and slotting the card into the door. It beeps happily, and they’re inside another fleabag motel in another fleabag town.

“Or maybe I need to be with Zachariah and the others for it to work,” Castiel isn’t sure, obviously, but it feels like the sort of thing Zachariah would be a part of. “Return to the Host or something like that.”

Dean nods resignedly. “That could be it.”

Castiel narrows his eyes, suddenly feeling a little bit defensive. “You don’t think I’d do that… do you?” He asks, tossing his duffel bag onto the nearest bed. He closes the door behind him and remains standing, arms crossed.

Dean’s on the other bed, rifling through his own duffel. It’s a little too non-chalant for Castiel’s liking. “No, of course not,” is the muted reply, but it just sets Castiel more on edge.

Because he feels like for everything he’s been through, everything _they’ve_ been through, and it’s this comparatively tiny thing that Dean suddenly seems  unsure about, even after Castiel went full on emotional breakdown not hours ago in the Impala, and said that he wants to try, and here’s Dean, already showing the cracks.

“No,” Castiel says, more emphatically. “I just…Jesus, Dean, you think I would do that? I just told Zachariah to stick it where the sun don’t shine. I told him not to let the door hit him in the ass on the way out. I just told _you_ that I want to… try. You think I’d just fuck off after something like that?” He laughs, though it’s hollowed out and echoes weirdly in his own ears. “You have all of me, Dean. God forbid, if I left now, I’d be leaving a part of myself behind.”

Dean looks a little gobsmacked, so Castiel walks across the room, puts his hands on either side of Dean’s face, and presses his lips to Dean’s. It’s tender. Extremely tender. And, true to form, something stirs, bone deep in Castiel, that tells him to back off.

And he enthusiastically tells that voice to fuck off. Because he’s tired of it. He’s heard it his whole life, and if Zachariah and his _Cassiel is the angel of observation_ can be believed, he’s heard it even longer than that.

Dean’s hands are on Castiel’s shoulders, and he pushes him back gently. “Cas,” He starts, but Castiel doesn’t let him finish.

“You’re stuck with me,” Castiel murmurs against his neck, presses hot lips to Dean’s pulse point in time with his heart beats. Dean shudders beneath him, and instead of pushing him away, his arms are pulling him in, now, fisting in the back of his shirt.

“Cas, are you sure?” Dean huffs out between groans while Castiel licks a stripe up Dean’s neck.

“I’m sure,” Castiel assures him, pressing a kiss to Dean’s Adam’s apple. “Dean, I’ve been sure for a while now. It was just a matter of letting my upstairs head catch up to my… other head, I guess.” He smirks into Dean’s jaw, grazing his teeth slightly along the hard line, earning a hiss from Dean. “I want you to tell me what you like,” Castiel is basically in Dean’s lap now, his knees on either side of Dean’s thighs, one of Dean’s hands fisted in his hair and the other gripping his waist with his shirt bunched up around it.

“I like your stupid blue eyes,” Dean pulls a little on Castiel’s hair so that he can bring their mouths together again, and it’s teeth and tongue and Castiel pulls Dean’s bottom lip into his mouth and sucks, and Dean groans and throws his head back, so Castiel is at his throat again, determined to leave a mark, because hey, if they’re going all the way with this.

In the part of his mind that isn’t completely clouded with lust, Castiel briefly contemplates not only why he’s so open to this, but why he’s so goddam eager in the first place. And he doesn’t have much of an answer, except for the fact that it’s _Dean_ , and he couldn’t imagine this with anyone else, and it really did take everything to get them here, so maybe it’s the inevitable end to a predictable story, but Castiel can’t find it within him to care. Destiny or not, prophecy or no, he fucking loves Dean so much that it scares him and awes him at the same time. They’ll figure it out, just like they’re figuring this out, what’s good and what’s not, what works where and what buttons to push.

“I like your hair because I can pull it,” Dean gasps, and yanks a little to emphasize his point. Castiel whines, animal, in his throat, and that dumb image of a caveman dragging his woman by the hair pops into his head. Surprisingly, the thought of Dean completely _owning_ him like that turns him on like nothing else.

“Jesus, Dean,” He breathes, pulling at Dean’s shirt agitatedly, trying to get it off so he can feel the flush of skin beneath his palms. “Is it made of fucking cotton or cardboard?”

Dean chuckles, and it sends an alarming jolt down south. “Hold on there, stud. I can’t take it off if you’re stuck to my chest.” He eyes Castiel’s still clothed form. “You too, angelface,” he orders, and Castiel’s shirt is off with nary a backward glance, and then Dean’s shirt is off, and they’re scooting up the bed for an awkward second, knocking knees as Castiel crawls over as Dean slides onto the pillows at the head.

“Better,” Castiel decides, before attacking Dean’s chest, scraping his nails up and down his sides. Dean practically convulses at that, and Castiel grins against his right nipple before swirling his tongue around it and taking it into his mouth.

“Christ…!” Dean manages to get out before he bites his tongue, back arching into Castiel’s bowed body. “Jesus Christ, Cas, yeah, okay, that’s-” and his voice is cut off as Castiel slides down his body so that they’re lined up perfectly, and _grinds_ directly into Dean, hands gripping his hips hard enough to leave bruises. Dean’s eyes are a wild green, hooded with lust, and as Castiel meets his gaze, something white hot and incorporeal passes between them, snapping like a rubber band and stinging them both ways, and there’s a whole new intensity to the moment, even though the pants aren’t even off yet.

Castiel makes his way down Dean’s chest, tongue and teeth and kisses and combinations of all three, and Dean is writhing beneath him in a way that’s so primal and satisfying that he almost laughs. He has zero experience in this area, but his instinct is just telling him to go for it, telling him to do what feels right, listen to Dean’s body and words and learn and adapt from it.

So when he finally finds himself at the strip of skin just above the waistband of Dean’s jeans, and Castiel nips there, directly in the center, and Dean practically bucks off the bed, Castiel licks his lips in triumph and bites one, two, three more times in quick succession, and Dean is absolutely wrecked above him, chest heaving and sweat pooling in the dips of his hipbones. Castiel experimentally dips his tongue in one of the little pools, and it’s salty on his tongue but nothing too offensive, and he’s sucking on those little protrusions of bones now, while one of his hands is making its way up Dean’s inner thigh, and Christ, he never thought he would get so turned on from just making sure his _partner_ was turned on, but then again, Castiel never thought he’d be in bed with an angel, and he never thought he’d _be_ an angel, so it’s obviously been a day for shit he never thought would happen.

Dean tugs on his hair, and when Castiel meets his gaze he grunts out, “come back up here,” and then just like that, it’s right back to making out, and Castiel is pretty sure he could come just from rutting against Dean like this.

“So,” Dean starts, stuttering and gasping in between kisses, “how do you want to do this?”

Castiel grinds down against Dean’s crotch, feels the line of Dean’s cock through his jeans. “Do what?” he asks huskily, voice a couple notches lower than normal.

“Sh- fuck!” Dean grounds out, cheeks flushed and hair ruffled and looking so fucking debauched Castiel doesn’t even know what to do about it. “This,” Dean finally gets the coherency to say, and gestures vaguely between them.

“Don’t care,” Castiel answers immediately. “You choose. You’re the expert.” He rolls his hips into Dean’s again, sucks Dean’s ear lobe into his mouth and braces his hands on either side of the bed for purchase. Dean moans, hands resting on Castiel’s hips now.

“God, that’s not the way it looks at the moment,” Dean manages to get out.

“I’m a fast learner, apparently,” And, yeah, Castiel will give himself that one.

“Pants off,” Dean gasps, and Castiel is definitely okay with that. He fumbles at the button on Dean’s jeans, barely able to pop it with his shaking fingers, and then decides to leave the rest to Dean as he deals with his own way too confining zipper.

Soon enough, after awkwardly shoving their jeans off and tossing them somewhere with the slap of denim against the wall, and they manage to peel their socks off as well, (seriously, Castiel never realized how many clothes he wore until they actively got in his way)the only thing between him and Dean is the thin layer of their boxer-briefs.

Suffice to say, it’s a little overwhelming. The last tryst they had undertaken, no one had lost so much as a sock in the moment, and now here they are, basically naked and about to do the dirty. It hits Castiel then, that _something_ , at least, is going to happen. Something that involves sweat and naked skin sliding against more naked skin and this is one of those no-take-backsies deals that the kids are so fond of these days. It makes him freeze up a little, makes his brain do a little stutter step and then halt completely.

“Um,” he says, suddenly very aware of the tent in Dean’s boxer-briefs and how it’s rubbing up in the vicinity of his own camp ground.

“Cas, what’s wrong?” Dean is out from under Castiel in less than two seconds flat, palms gentle on his cheeks and he says again, “What’s wrong? Is it too much? We don’t have to-”

Castiel kisses him, his chest practically radiating warmth at Dean’s worry. “I just- kind of froze up for a second. It’s a little… overwhelming,” Castiel admits, resting his forehead against Dean’s.

“It’s okay, Cas,” Dean murmurs, rubbing his hands up and down Castiel’s arms. “We can do whatever you want, or-” and Castiel can hear the strain it takes Dean to say this, “we can do nothing at all.”

Castiel shakes his head forcefully. “No, no, I want to. I just… needed a minute. To find my feet.”

Dean kisses his forehead, and it’s so tender that Castiel is horrified to find his eyes stinging.

“You’re in the driver’s seat, here, Cas. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Castiel isn’t interested in the future, not really. He’s interested in the here and now, and right here, right now, he wants to be with Dean.

He’s a little afraid. Afraid because this time, it’s not just for him. It’s for them. He’s going to let someone be responsible for him, and he’ll have to be responsible for someone else. A tall order for someone who spent most of his time alone in a dead garden.

But he’s spent so long like that, and he’s here, with Dean, who looks beautiful and debauched and probably suffering from some of the worst blue balls imaginable right now.

And he realizes… that he feels bad about that. He’s upset that Dean could be in pain right now.

The realization that he has as simple a feeling as sympathy for another person may not be much for someone else, but for Castiel, it’s huge. It’s huge, and exactly what he needs to remember how much Dean is to him. How Dean wormed his way in, despite every single fibre of Castiel pushing against him the whole way. Screw destiny. Screw it right in the face. The only thing that made Castiel fall in love with Dean _was_ Dean.

“I love you,” He says, and it’s automatic. An affirmation. A bonding agent. This is the first time he’s said it to Dean since Sam had been around. It’s also the first time he doesn’t regret it.

Dean must feel the same way, because his eyes are suddenly brighter than Castiel’s ever seen them, and more beautiful. His face splits into a grin that’s like the sun, and he looks down and away, a blush curling up his cheeks.

Castiel laughs, light and light hearted. It’s like there’s a balloon in his chest, this feeling that’s just… overwhelming. But in a good way, this time.

He cups Dean’s face and brings it back up so that they’re looking at each other, eye to eye. Dean is achingly beautiful, and Castiel traces constellations in his freckles.

“I love you,” he repeats, and it’s a prayer, a promise. More than anything, it’s an axiom. Because this really _is_ it. Nothing could compare to this, compare to _Dean_.

And he’s laughing again, his whole body reverberating with it. It’s a real laugh, too. No sarcasm or sardonic quirks of the mouth. It’s a genuine, honest to god, breath-stealing laugh. Castiel surges forward, slotting his mouth to Dean’s again, his hands in Dean’s hair, and it’s just _good_. Pure.

And when they break apart for breath, Dean’s hand is stroking his cheek, gentle, and there’s such a fondness in his eyes that Castiel’s stomach clenches.

“I love you,”

If there was ever any doubt left lingering in Castiel’s mind, those words cut the last tether. It floats away into the sky, like a wayward balloon, smaller and smaller against the horizon, until it’s gone for good.

Yeah, there’s still an apocalypse. Yeah, he’s still apparently an angel. Yeah, they’re going to have a lot of shit to deal with in the morning.

But right now, he just doesn’t give a flying fuck.

***

It’s slower now. The frenzied _need_ of earlier has ebbed off in the light of Castiel’s mini-breakdown, only to be replaced with more of an unhurried simmer, an exploratory hike that requires lots of map reading.

Dean’s skin is hot under his palms, and Castiel can feel the thrum of energy humming in his veins, feel every touch reverberate through his body, like it’s all united in its quest for all things Dean. It’s roaming hands and muted gasps and a _sharing_ so intense that Castiel can almost feel Dean marking his skin, his lips, his ribs, and his bones. He carves his name onto Castiel’s soul and kisses his name into Castiel’s lips. It’s promises and declarations, but instead of intent, instead of showing, Dean is telling. Dean isn’t speaking with words, but his caresses and gazes are enough to fill a novel, and Castiel is an empty page, waiting to be written on.

There’s still moments, still random flashes of fear that make him cold because he doesn’t wholly belong to himself anymore. But then Dean reminds him, with nonsensical murmurs and soft lips, that he will protect the part of Castiel he now owns with his life. He reminds Castiel that he isn’t the only one who lost a part of himself and found it in another person. Every once in a while, a shudder will run through Dean, a question, and Castiel will answer it, and it will be his turn to comfort, to whisper assurances and smooth away worries.

It’s the give and take, he thinks, as skin slides against skin. It’s the fact that one can’t always be giving, and one can’t always be taking. It’s a balancing act that he never realized he had to maintain, because back then, at the beginning of all this, it wasn’t about what he could do for Dean. It was what Dean could do for him. And it still is that, but it’s also more. Because it’s now about what Castiel would do for Dean as well. It’s a partnership, where they have to compensate for each other and hold each other up and lean on each other in equal measure.

Castiel rolls his hips, languid and fluid, and they slot next to each other, the underwear gone a long time ago. It’s a burn, deep and sensual, and he gasps into Dean’s shoulder, presses his lips against overheated skin. Dean’s hands are on his back and in his hair and his mouth is on Castiel’s neck and his breath is hot and stuttered, ghosting against Castiel’s ear, and Castiel hears past the elevated heart rates, past the quiet moans and uttered oaths, and it’s Dean’s blood singing in his veins, his taste buds rapturous as he tastes the sweat dripping off Castiel, his muscles pulled taut and quivering as a bow string, and Castiel wants nothing more than to pluck those strings and listen to the music they make.

The fire in his belly is growing, fed by every thrust and guttural moan that makes its way past Dean’s lips. Dean is writhing beneath him now, chest heaving and hips rising to meet his every push. Castiel’s hands are on either side of Dean’s head, gripping and twisting the sheets to find purchase, and Dean’s hands are bruising hard on his hips, unapologetic.

Castiel crashes his mouth into Dean’s, hard, and he hears the clack of teeth as he rocks into Dean, feels his muscles lock down, tense up. His nerves are splayed out now, stretched out on the table, and Dean’s hands on his back are playing him like a piano, and tonight, it’s Castiel who’s the instrument, and Dean is the conductor, sweat on his brow as he plays Castiel towards the climax of the piece. There’s a moan from one of them, Castiel isn’t sure who, but he feels the crest, feels the surge as the water leaves the beach. He chokes out a, “Dean, m’gonna-” and the tsunami crashes back in full force, carrying away buildings and cars and fire hydrants, and he’s right there on the cap the whole time, riding it out as it sweeps him limb from limb, simultaneously filling him up and emptying him. Somehow, he can still feel Dean under him, solid and something to cling to, while at the same time he’s riding his own wave, chest heaving and toes curling.

Castiel sprawls out across Dean’s chest, absolutely spent, and they just lay together for a few minutes in silence, each getting their breathing back.

“Okay,” he says finally, with a tongue that feels like lead. “That was. Yeah, that was okay.”

Dean chuckles beneath him, and Castiel bounces slightly with the action.

“Yeah, it was _okay_.” Dean huffs another laugh, before turning serious. “But are _you_ okay? I mean, the first time can be… a lot.”

Castiel presses a kiss to Dean’s chest, idly traces his fingers up and down Dean’s side. He can’t really feel anything beyond a warmth that radiates from somewhere near his center, and he’s fairly certain it’s contentment.

“It was a lot,” Castiel comments, and Dean’s arms reflexively wrap tighter around him. “A lot of a lot.” Another kiss to Dean’s torso. “I love you,” It’s amazingly, beautifully easy to say in this warm haze surrounding them.

Dean shifts them so that they’re face to face sharing a pillow.  He shifts closer, hand on Castiel’s cheek, and draws him into a slow kiss. It’s more a craving for intimacy than anything, and Castiel gives as much as he takes.

Castiel has to break it off so that he can yawn, and Dean grins sleepily at him. “Time for bed, angel,” he announces, and pulls the covers up and over them, pulling Castiel in and placing a hand on his hip.

“We have a lot of shit to deal with when we wake up,” Castiel comments neutrally.

Dean kisses his hair. “Yup.”

And they sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some heartwarming stuff, but it's mostly just a lot of arguing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy fuck i'm actually posting a chapter. hello again friends.  
> to anyone who still cares, i swear i haven't abandoned this story. it's just proving more difficult to finish than I thought it would. to be honest, i have no idea how many chapters are left after this one. could be two, could be twenty. guess we'll find out.  
> also, I promise the next update will be sooner than this one was. i guarantee it, in fact.

“Holy shit,”

“Yeah.”

Sam runs a hand through his hair, looking thoroughly flabbergasted. They’d just finished filling him in on the last couple of days and Castiel’s new status as an angel of the lord.

“This is nuts,” He says dazedly, like he still can’t believe it.

“It is,” Castiel agrees whole-heartedly.

“Wow.” Sam has a sit down, and Dean pats him gingerly on the shoulder.

“So, any news to share with us?”

Sam shakes his head slowly. “Nothing that can trump that, that’s for sure.”

Dean goes to sit on the bed beside Castiel, much closer than they usually sit. Sam doesn’t seem to notice.

“Cas is an archangel. And you two are twisted up together in some kind of prophecy that proves we’re ready to fight Lucifer.”

“Those are the very brief cliff notes, yes.” Castiel says, and Sam takes in a big gulp of air. Pauses for a minute.

“Lucifer is in the Cage,” Sam finally states, like he’s trying to communicate something extremely obvious.

Dean raises his brows. “Yeah? And?”

“Well, if Lucifer is in the Cage, there’s not gonna be an apocalypse, is there? Not as long as he’s stuck down there.”

“He has minions, or henchmen, or whatever,” Dean argues, thinking of Lilith with a grimace.

“Yeah, but it’s not the same thing,” Sam insists. “ _All_ demons are his, and we haven’t had to worry about the apocalypse before. If we really are headed this direction, then what’s the trigger?”

When Castiel realizes, it feels like the bottom of his stomach has just dropped out.

“It’s me,” he says quietly.

Sam and Dean both turn to look at him.

“It’s me,” he says more forcefully. Numb. “It’s because of me.”

“Cas-” Dean starts, ready to argue.

Castiel stands up, paces. “Zachariah said it. He _said_ it. I thought he just meant that I was the one who had to push the button. But the fact that I exist at all is why there can be an apocalypse. And yesterday he-” Castiel’s brain is just ahead of his mouth, and he stops it just in time.

Dean looks at him, head tilted. “What, Cas?”

“It’s us,” he says. “it’s the goddam prophecy after all.”

“I don’t think-” Dean manages to say before Castiel cuts him off.

“No, Dean, we hadn’t gotten a chance to talk about it yet. But it’s because we’re… it’s because we’re _us_. Because of this _thing_ between us.”  Castiel puts his head in his hands, presses hard enough on his eyelids so that he sees all the pretty colors.

“God, what if it’s all tied together?” he laments to no one in particular. “I mean _all_ of it. Not just the prophecy, but everything else, too? You angels seem like the conspiracy types. Dean, what if you didn’t sneak out of heaven? What if they just _let_ you out? So that you could find me for them?

“I assume that was the angels trying to nab me all those months ago when you had to physically drag me out of my house in the middle of the night, right?” At Dean’s expression, Castiel takes that as a “yes”.

“Dean, we’ve been playing into their hands for months!” Castiel exclaims, collapsing back down onto the bed opposite Dean. “We did every single thing they wanted us to do.”

And, because he’s still on a roll and still isn’t earning that A in tact, he adds, “I mean, hell, you told me the story about your mother. What if that was all part of the plan, too? What if- what if she was killed so you would have more of a reason to leave? So that you would come to earth more often?”

Sam and Dean, frankly, look a little dumbfounded. And a little pissed.

“No fucking way, Cas,” Dean says. “The angels are dicks but they aren’t- they wouldn’t do _that_.”

“It’s just a theory,” Castiel snaps, suddenly defensive. “I mean, come on, Dean. A heavenly paperwork error? That’s ridiculous. You said it yourself. You did research. You investigated. You don’t think it was an accident.”

Dean scrubs his hands over his face, obviously trying to calm himself down.

“It’s different,” He finally comes back with, lamely.

“How?” Castiel challenges, unwilling to back down. He can see Sam shifting uncomfortably out of the corner of his eye.

“Because, Cas, if it’s one bad apple, one douche angel, then whatever. That happens. But if this whole thing is linked back to this, if it’s all a conspiracy…” His voice trails off, and Castiel loses his patience.

“What, Dean? What does that mean? That you finally get closure? That you can finally know what happened to her? That you can get revenge?”

Dean stands up, suddenly and furiously, and he’s taller than Castiel. In this moment more than any, Castiel realizes that.

“It means-” he’s practically yelling now. “If it all comes back to this, to us, then it means-” he clears his throat, rage gone almost as soon as it surfaced. He slumps back onto the bed, tucked in on himself. “It means that it’s my fault,” he finishes, quietly enough that both Sam and Castiel have to lean forward to hear him.

There’s a loud silence after that, Dean looking at his lap, and Castiel and Sam sharing a loaded glance.

“Dean,” Sam starts, voice soft enough to counterbalance whatever defense mechanisms he’s set up in only the way a family member can. “Even if that was the reason she was killed, it’s not your fault. At all. There is absolutely no blame falling onto you, here. None.”

Castiel thinks Dean’s ignored it all, thinks they’re going to continue to sit here in a state of perpetual awkwardness for the rest of their lives, but then he finally gives a long, shuddering sigh.

“I know,” he says, resigned. “I mean, in my head, I know. But that doesn’t change the fact that if none of this prophecy crap or whatever fell on me, she’d still be here.”

Castiel has a quick inner debate that ends the moment he gets a good look at Dean’s face. He moves to sit beside Dean on the bed, rests a gentle hand on his forearm and squeezes lightly. Dean leans into Castiel slightly, and Sam has the good grace not to say anything.

Castiel remains quiet, uncertain. He’s still trying to work out how to be comforting. But for the moment, he thinks that maybe Dean doesn’t need anything except a soothing hand, and at least that Castiel can give him.

Finally, Dean clears his throat, and everyone ignores the catch in his voice when he turns to Castiel and says, “Yeah, you might have a point.”

He scrubs a hand over his jaw and looks to Sam. “Any ideas at all on what to do next?”

Sam sighs and shakes his head.

“I mean, we’ve got an apocalypse on our hands, and they need Cas to start it. So I guess our main goal is still the same as ever- keep Cas away from them.” A speculative look appears on Sam’s face, and he narrows his eyes as if he’s just thought of something. “What I still don’t understand,” he says slowly, “Is why the angels _want_ to start an apocalypse.”

Castiel shifts uneasily.

“Actually, I think I have an idea about that, too,” he says. Sam and Dean both turn to him, brows raised. Castiel licks his lips nervously, a habit he picked up from Dean.

“It all goes back to what I was saying about everything being tied together,” he explains. “The other day, Zachariah was talking about how our _union_ , or whatever,” he gestures vaguely between himself and Dean, “Is somehow gonna, I dunno, revamp heaven or whatever enough to defeat Lucifer.”

“The unification of the earth and heaven or some bullcrap,” Dean adds eloquently. “Some sort of seal, I guess.”

Castiel nods. “I think… maybe the point of this prophecy is that as soon as it’s fulfilled, Lucifer _has_ to rise, and we have no choice but to fight.”

“So, it’s inevitable,” Sam runs his hands through his hair. “Great.”

“We could win,” Castiel says, just because he figures someone has to say it.

It doesn’t surprise him neither Sam nor Dean deign to respond directly to that.

“We need to pull the plug, somehow,” Dean decides. “Even if we could win,” and Castiel can hear the mountainous grains of salt Dean piles with that statement, “half the planet would get roasted in the crossfire. The angels obviously don’t seem to care that much. I’m sure Lucifer doesn’t give two shits.” He pats Castiel’s hand on his forearm, telling him it’s okay to let go, and stands up and grabs a couple beers from the fridge. He tosses one to Sam and one to Castiel, who places his on the nightstand. “If Lucifer is really going to rise, just because me and Cas are whatever we are, then, well-” Dean takes an agitated sip of beer. “I really don’t know what we’re going to do.”

“Maybe we do need to fight.” Castiel suggests. “If it’s our only option.”

Dean shakes his head. “No way. It’s our only option _at the moment_. We’ll find something else. Right Sammy?” He looks to Sam, who nods back.

“Yeah, definitely.” Though Castiel isn’t exactly convinced by Sam’s tone.

Sam and Dean start talking about… something. Castiel isn’t really sure, because he’s just been struck by a completely ridiculous and stupid thought. A completely ridiculous and stupid thought that sticks to him like a butterfly pined to a corkboard.

“Cas, what do you think?” Dean asks, stirring Castiel from his train of thought.

He starts. “What?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Would Sam look better in salmon or aqua?” When Castiel narrows his eyes in confusion, Dean sighs and asks, “Where’d you go just now?”

“I-” Castiel swallows and links his fingers together nervously. This is a really dumb idea. “It was something Gabriel said. About the legend.”

Dean and Sam are both staring at him.

“And?” Dean prompts.

“Maybe… Maybe _I_ can talk to Lucifer.”

There’s a shocked moment of silence, and then Castiel practically hears Dean’s brows rise.

“Gabriel said that Lucifer was lonely. He wanted someone by his side.” Castiel hastily explains, eager to get it all out before Dean shoots it down pre-emptively. “And he took _me_. So maybe… He’d listen to me. After all, I am the angel of loneliness. I didn’t exactly live a life full of friends and connections, either. I’m sure we could relate to each other.”

Dean scoffs loud enough to scare any other patrons in the near vicinity.

“You realize you basically just said you want to be bffs with Satan, right?”

Castiel sets his jaw.

“Yes.”

“What exactly would be the plan, Cas? You gonna braid his hair? Gossip? Hold each other and cry about how lonely you two are?”

“I dunno, Dean, I just thought of it. But it’s a hell of a lot better than your idea.”

Dean slams his beer bottle down on the counter. “Yeah? And why is that, Cas?”

“Because you just want to run away!” Castiel exclaims, standing up. “You wanted to run away when we first found out about this months ago, and you want to run away again. You don’t want to fight. You just want to pretend like it isn’t happening, pretend like it’s all okay. Well, you can’t run away from your problems, Dean. Not this time.”

Dean laughs blackly.

“Oh, yeah, cause you’re _so_ good at dealing with things head on, right Cas?” He crosses his arms. “It’s not like you’d been waiting your entire teenage years to get out of your own damn life, and I just gave you the excuse you needed. You spent your life in a fucking garden talking to the plants because they took you someplace else. You told me that, the first time we met, remember? We both know that you would run away from _yourself_ if you could, Cas, so don’t fucking tell me that I run away from my problems, because if anyone in this situation is a coward, it’s _you_.” 

Castiel grinds his teeth, ready to retort in whatever way he can, (because yeah, Dean may have a point) but then he’s saved by Sam’s interruption.

“Dean, I think I’m with Cas on this one,” Sam says, almost apologetically.

Dean turns to him, still seething. “Don’t talk about what you don’t know, Sam,” he grits out. “I’m just trying to keep us all in one piece here. It’s not my fault Cas is a reckless ja-”

“No, Dean,” Sam interrupts. “That’s not what I mean.” He gestures between Dean and Castiel. “That’s something you two have to work out on your own. I’m saying that I agree with Cas about him trying to talk to Lucifer.”

Dean cocks his head, brows furrowed. “I’m sorry, I thought I just heard you say it was a good idea for _Cas_ to try and reason with the _devil_.”

“I didn’t say _good_ idea,” Sam clarifies, though he doesn’t deny the rest.

Dean huffs disbelievingly and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’m living in a nut house,” he says to no one in particular.

Sam and Cas share a quick look before Dean suddenly explodes again.

“Of course you aren’t fucking talking to the devil, Cas! Jesus Christ, that’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard!”

“He knows me,” Castiel says neutrally. “Sort of.”

“What exactly would you say, huh? ‘Hi, I’m the angel who blew your popsicle stand first chance I got back in the day and now I just wanted to ask you not to destroy the world’? Cause excuse me for bein’ a pessimist, but I don’t think that’ll work.”

“I would appeal to his loneliness,” Castiel reasons.

“He’s the fuckin’ devil Cas, he’s got minions and shit for that stuff. He’s not some rejected school girl crying in the bathroom stall.”

“You don’t think any of this falls on my shoulders, Dean?” Castiel feels his voice wavering, vows to hold back for coherency’s sake. “You claim to feel responsible? Well guess what, there are two people in that prophecy, not just one.”

That pulls Dean up short.

“No way. It’s not- it’s not your fault, Cas. Christ, you didn’t even know.”

“Neither did you, and yet you still cling to the blame.”

Dean opens his mouth, struggling to say something, but snaps it shut again soon enough. Castiel has a point, and he knows it. They’re both in the same boat here.

“If things are how the angels seem to think,” Castiel says quietly, placating, “then Lucifer has been alone for a long time. But _I_ was the one he took with him. Even if he just took whatever he could get his hands on, that must count for something, right?” He half laughs, “Not everyone is as emotionally stunted as I am. He must have grown somewhat attached to me. After all, he wanted me to rule hell with him, right?”

Sam sighs. “He has a point,” he admits, even though it sounds like it pains him to say it.

Dean’s jaw is steel, and it looks like he’s about five seconds from hurling the nearest lamp into the wall.

“This is a fucking ridiculous idea,” is all he says before he storms out of the room, slamming the door with a resounding bang.

***

With Dean gone, the tension in the room dissipates, at least.  Castiel lets out a breath he realizes he hasn’t been holding, and looks to Sam gratefully.

“Thanks for backing me up,” he says, and Sam shoots him a stony glare.

“You think it was easy for me to say that? To gang up on my brother and basically say I think we should throw you to the dogs?” The words are harsh, but they’re said in such a tired voice that Castiel doesn’t have it in him to fight back.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, “At least if I can talk some sense into my… brother-” his tongue trips over the word a bit. He’s actually sot of related to the devil. In a very non-tangible way, but still, having Satan on your family tree is a little disconcerting. “It’ll be _something_ worthwhile.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, and when Castiel glances up again, Sam is assessing him like a doctor might asses a mentally ill person.

“You’ve done worthwhile things,” Sam says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Um. No, not really,” Castiel replies, genuinely confused. “I’m pretty sure I’ve never even won a participation ribbon.”

Sam shakes his head, like he can’t believe Castiel is so dumb. “You wouldn’t know, I guess. But man, since he met you- even though you’re almost constantly fighting when I happen to drop in- the way he looks at you-” Sam laughs a little and runs his hands through his hair again. “That’s the way he used to look at our mom. The way he looks at me.”

At Castiel’s quirked brow, Sam rolls his eyes.

“Not like _that_ , obviously. More like, you’re one of the family. Dean needs people close to him. He thrives off other people- not that he’d ever admit that, and he’d kick my ass if he knew I was telling you. But at the same time, he has a hard time letting people in.

“But you, Cas. It looks like you blasted through those walls in no time flat. After Dean met you that first time, when he appeared in your garden, I honestly think that was it. He was gone on you. And you know what? Fuck the prophecy. It really doesn’t matter, because I haven’t seen my brother this happy in a long time.” His mouth quirks up at the ends. “Even when he storms out like that, trust me, it’s only the people he loves who can make him that mad.”

Castiel wasn’t expecting a speech, which is probably why the first thing that comes out of his mouth afterwards is something along the very eloquent lines of, “guh?”

Sam smiles softly.

“You’re good for him, Cas.”

“Are you- is this you giving me your blessing?” Castiel blurts out, because tact is a seductive mistress who can never be pleased just once a night.

Sam snorts and takes a sip of his beer. “Yeah, sure.” He catches Castiel glancing toward the door, and his amusement lessens. “He’ll be back,” he says quietly. “He just needs to cool off.”

Castiel nods, eyes still on the door.

“Is this the first walking-out-and-slamming-the-door fight?” Sam asks sympathetically.

Another nod.

There’s a huff from Sam, who shakes his head and takes another pull from the beer bottle before saying, “You’re right, you know.”

“About what?”

“Dean. He’s a coward. But only about his family. Stand him alone in front of a thousand demons, and he’ll slice every throat there. But add in a family member to the mix? You can bet the first thing he’ll do is grab your hand and head for the exits.” He looks pointedly at Castiel. “That includes you, now. Dean would rather hide you away forever than risk putting you in danger. It’s just how he works.”

Castiel isn’t exactly fond of being talked about like someone who needs to be protected, like some damsel. It itches at his skin, and makes him think of the sullen rebellious teenage years he’s supposed to be going through, about how he doesn’t like being told what to do, even if it’s for his own good.

“You’ve been in heaven this whole time, with archangels hot on your trail. That doesn’t sound like running for the exits to me.”

The side of Sam’s mouth quirks up. “Yeah, well. Me and Dean have been through a lot together. And I can promise you, we’ve had enough shouting matches on the subject that I think he’s backed off, at least a little. He’s still a mother hen at the best of times, though.” Sam takes another swig of beer, and sets it down on the table behind him. “The thing about Dean, is that he’ll love you before he can trust you. Once you’re family, you’re in.” Sam’s face darkens, and he continues. “But that doesn’t mean you’ve earned his trust. And if you break the trust that you have gained, well- let’s just say it’s a lot worse than what happened today.”

Castiel senses some major drama here, a page in the family history he has yet to read.

“I’m not saying this to freak you out or anything, Cas. I just want you to know how big this is for Dean. How important this is to him.”

Castiel nods.

“Thanks, Sam. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

Castiel fools with the button on his sleeve for a moment, wondering if he should ask his next question. It’s been nagging at him for a while.

“Sam, I actually… had a question. For you,” he finally ventures.

“Shoot.”

“It’s about Lilith.” He admits, and looks up in time to see Sam’s face grow guarded, wary.

“What about her?”

“It’s just that, Zachariah threw me a bone. He _gave_ me her name, like it was something important. A clue.”

Sam scoffs. “Why the hell would Zachariah give you a clue? This isn’t a board game, Cas, where the bad guys just leave murder weapons and footprints behind.”

“I know that,” Castiel retorts. “But the dick is so fucking smarmy he told me he basically just said it to watch us chase our tails. Besides, could it hurt?”

The glint in Sam’s eyes belies his exasperation. The light bulb flicks on.

“You already did some research didn’t you?” Castiel asks.

Sam looks determinedly at his beer bottle. “Yeah.”

“So? You gonna share with the class?”

Sam glares at ceiling for a moment.

“So the legend, about Lilith… seems legitimate.” He grudgingly admits.

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Well, it seems like Lilith really loved Samael. At first, it was more of a rebellion thing, but as time went on, they grew to care for each other.” He grimaces. “Or, they did, until Samael found out that Lilith was originally Adam’s first wife. When he found out, he freaked out. Took off. But not before taking away her ability to have children. That’s probably why she’s known today as the demon who will kidnap newborns, because she wants them for herself.”

“Not to be rain on your parade, but is there anything useful in there?”

And this time, it’s Sam’s jaw that clenches.

“Yeah, just a little bit.” He says darkly. “Apparently Lilith didn’t let Samael get away unscathed. She left him a parting gift.” He takes a deep breath. “After she died and became a demon, she snuck up on him one night while he was doing the angel version of sleeping. And bled in his mouth.”

What.

“What?”

“That’s one of the ways the demon infection can be spread,” he says bitterly. “and it’s a lineage thing, so if Samael has demon blood in him, that means…” he gestures hopelessly.

“But… you’re an angel,” Castiel states blankly.

“An angel with demon blood in me.”

Castiel is agog. “Does Dean know? Oh, god, does that mean Dean has demon blood in him as well?”

“Dean doesn’t know.” Sam waves a dismissive hand. “And he isn’t related to Samael in the same way I am- namesakes and all, they’re pretty important. Angel family trees are a little complicated.” He assures Castiel.

Castiel swallows heavily, and can’t help the pooling relief in his stomach that Dean is safe.

“But,” he says hesitantly. “What exactly does that mean? I mean, is it like human infections or…?”

Sam shrugs. “I have no idea,” he admits. “I don’t feel like there’s anything wrong with me, y’know? I’m not sick, not having visions or talking to the devil on a regular basis… I don’t know.”

Castiel is so not equipped for this. He can barely name five human diseases let alone supernatural maladies.

“You need to tell Dean,” That’s the one thing he’s sure of.

“I will, I will,” Sam promises, hands up, placating. “But not yet. It’s too much right now. He can only deal with so much.”

Castiel nods resignedly. “I suppose so. Though you have to tell him as soon as this is all over.”

“Definitely.” Sam says decisively, and Castiel guesses it’s the most he could hope for.

That puts a definitive end to their discussion, and they sit in silence for the next while. Castiel’s mind is going a thousand miles a minute, trying to file and sort all the new information. He’s sure Sam is currently doing the same thing.

Dean comes back, eventually, and he’s calmed down.

“What’d I miss?” He asks in a feeble attempt at bravado. “Hope you guys didn’t braid Sam’s hair while I was away, because I really wanted in on that action.”

Sam and Castiel glance at each other, before both saying, “nothing,” at the same time.

Castiel very much tries not to think about Sam’s earlier speech about how important trust is to Dean.

***

Shit. He’s dreaming again.

“Cassie!” Calls an accented voice that immediately has Castiel’s douche-detectors on red alert.

He’s in a forest, surrounded by towering redwood pines that he can’t see the tops of. It’s a misty day (night? He can’t really tell when he’s so deep in the woods), with fog hanging low on the ground and clinging wetly to his eyelashes.

“Cassie!” The voice comes again, sounding delighted. Castiel turns around, and meets the man who belongs to the voice.

And, yeah, those are the douchebag chimes clanging loud and proud. It’s dewy as fuck out here, and the guy is only wearing a v-neck. Sure, it’s a dream, but that doesn’t mean Castiel can’t judge him.

“Wow, it’s been a long time, little brother,” The man says, and somehow it’s half-reverence and half sarcasm and Castiel almost rolls his eyes hard enough that they do a full three-sixty in his skull.

He assumes, since he’s met all the other archangels, that this must be Balthazar.

“Balthazar,” he greets frostily.

“Oh, come now, that’s not much of a greeting is it?” Balthazar leans against a nearby tree, all annoyingly casual posture and relaxed shoulders. He examines his fingers blithely. “After all, it’s been what, a couple millennia since we’ve seen each other?”

“Yeah, well, I can’t say I’m near as excited to see you, unfortunately,” Castiel admits. “Angels seem to have this habit of dicking me around.”

Balthazar snorts. “Yes, I heard about Dean.”

Castiel sputters. “That’s not what I-”

Balthazar raises a hand. “Okay, Cassie, truth time. I don’t really care about that. I’m not just here for a friendly chat. I’m here on Gabriel’s favor, and also my own self-interest.”

Castiel raises a brow. “Where’s Gabriel?”

“Being worked over extremely thoroughly by our more devout brothers.”

He’s still too far removed from this to be anything but a passive observer. “How did he contact you, then?”

Balthazar sighs dramatically. “I followed in his footsteps, and Gabriel is a huge sap for family despite the fact that he basically hates all of us. When he realized I was looking for him on earth and following him around like a sad mutt, he took pity and showed me the ropes. We were in the same boat, but we refused to admit it. We were both paddling around in circles, though, and after enough storms, we just said ‘sod it’ and actually decided to steer the damn thing together. It’s been relatively smooth sailing since then.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.” Castiel is pretty numb to the notion of defying heaven nowadays.

“Think of it as a similar bond to Sam and Dean,” Balthazar says impatiently.

“How do you know about that?”

Balthazar levels a glare at him. “It’s a unique bond. I know it when I see it. Besides, _archangel_.” He points both is thumbs at himself. “I know these things. Are we done playing twenty questions now?”

“Why are you here?”

Balthazar glances heavenward in a _what did I do to deserve this_ expression, and Castiel has to suppress a sarcastic retort.

“Obviously not. I’m here to finish what Gabriel started.”

“And what’s that?” Castiel crosses his arms across his chest. Why is it cold in his dream?

“There’s more to that prophecy.”

Castiel brays out laughter.

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me? There’s more? Christ, it’s basically a full-length novel by now. I thought prophecies were supposed to be vague and brief.”

“Yeah, well, I got out of heaven for a reason,” Balthazar says like he’s heard a good old fashioned monologue or two during his days upstairs, and continues, “so here’s the deal. This prophecy mess that you’ve gotten yourself into is a pretty finicky beast.”

“I had no idea. Thank you for that unexpected revelation.”

Balthazar waves a hand dismissively and continues like he hasn’t heard. “Have you figured out yet that this whole apocalypse party is basically inevitable?”

Castiel nods.

“And that you and Dean hold Lucifer’s VIP invitation? Well, mostly you. I think dear old Luci might actually be a tad bit jealous of Dean, frankly. Dean took his favorite toy away from him.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow.

“ _I_ took myself away from him,” he clarifies, even though he can’t even remember it.

“Does it really count if you can’t remember it, though?” Balthazar questions, like he’s read Castiel’s mind. He puts up a hand. “Nevermind. I don’t actually care.”

Castiel’s jaw shuts with a click, and he gazes stonily at Balthazar. Gabriel is a hyperactive child, and Balthazar is an apathetic, sarcastic asshole.

It hits uncomfortably close to home.

“Look,” Balthazar leans back against a tree and crosses his arms, the picture of uncaring, “I don’t want to find you. I don’t want to be mixed up in this mess any more than I already am. Dreamwalking is dangerous enough, and I’m only doing this for Gabriel. And myself.”

Castiel rolls his eyes.

“Please, go on. I’m almost blushing.”

Balthazar shakes his head ruefully.

“God, and I thought Michael was a petulant little shit. You really take the cake, brother. High school has not been kind to you.”

“High school is rarely kind to anyone,” Castiel retorts, and has one of his moments of surrealism, talking to an archangel about the trials and tribulations of the public school system. Besides, it’s not like he actually attends high school anymore. If he ever gets all these archangel memories back, he figures he’ll never need to step foot inside a classroom again. He’ll be a fountain of knowledge.

Who knows, maybe he’ll finally turn that history paper in.

Balthazar glances at his wrist, even though he’s not wearing a watch.

“Okay, enough dilly-dallying. Cassie, you need to understand that this prophecy runs both ways. You and Dean can use it to your advantage. Prophecies are generally neutral things. It’s the execution that matters.”

Castiel feels his jaw clench.

“Care to be anymore cryptic? I’m not sure you were vague enough.”

Balthazar groans, resting his forehead on his crossed arms.

“I can’t _tell_ you, moron. That defeats the entire purpose of it. _You’re_ part of the prophecy. Not me, thank god. It’s your job to figure it out. Not mine to tell you.”

Castiel throws his arms up in frustration.

“You’re obviously breaking the rules by dreamwalking me. Just fucking spell it out for me, okay? I think I’ve had enough vague bullshit to last me the rest of my life, which could actually be a very very long time or a very very short time.”

Balthazar shakes his head, mouth set.

“I can’t. I physically cannot tell you. I can dance around it, but that’s the nature of a prophecy. It’s a sacred thing shared between people. You and your boy toy need to figure it out, Cassie.”

Castiel can feel the dream winding down, can feel it stuttering and chugging like a car that’s seen one too many bad days. Balthazar is going to take off without telling him what to do, and Castiel is going to be left having met all of the archangels, and exactly zero of them giving him straight answers.

He’s starting to see why Lucifer left the building.

“Thank you, Balthazar,” Castiel simpers, “You’ve been very helpful, and I definitely hope misfortune doesn’t befall you at anytime in the near future because your contributions tonight have been extremely valid and will most definitely help us reach our goal of saving the world.”

Balthazar winks at Castiel.

“Always glad to help a brother out.”

Castiel wakes up, and he’s getting tired of waking up dramatically.

Apparently, he’s going to have to save the world on his own because everyone else is too busy being vague and annoying to do it for him.

***

“Wow. More unclear and unhelpful archangels. What a surprise.”

Oftentimes, Castiel finds himself on a completely different wavelength than Dean. Times like this, though, Castiel and Dean may as well be able to read each other’s minds, they’re so synced up.

“Unclear and unhelpful and douchbags,” Castiel feels the need to tack on. They’re in yet another motel room, this one a disturbing combination of redneck serial killer décor and wholesome farm country living. They’re sitting side by side on the bed, legs crossed and knees touching.

Dean sighs heavily.

“I don’t want you to talk to Satan,” he says blandly. They haven’t discussed Castiel’s plan since Dean walked out last night, but apparently they’re doing it now. Castiel doesn’t have much fight left in him at the moment, but he still can’t bring himself to abandon the one idea that seemed like it had some promise.

“If it helps, I don’t particularly want to talk to Satan either,” Castiel supplies, “But apparently sometimes people have to do things they don’t want to do.”

“You shouldn’t do it,” Dean says.

“I know.”

“It’s a ridiculous idea and Lucifer will probably eat you.”

“I know.”

Dean runs a hand through his hair multiple times, obviously frustrated.

“If you know it’s not going to work, Cas, then why the hell would you even bother?”

Castiel shrugs helplessly, and can’t help the moony eyes he shoots Dean’s way.

“I have a reason to bother, now.”

Dean groans, whether at the lameness of the line, or because he knows Castiel is still planning on pow-wowing with the prince of darkness. He flops back onto the bed, lines of his body tight and stressed.

“You’re not allowed to die, Cas. Not for me, and not for the world.”

“I don’t think you really have a say in the matter, unfortunately.”

It really is regrettable, actually. As soon as Castiel finds something he wants, someone he can cling to, Satan has to show up and ruin the party. Typical.

Of course, if they hadn’t been driven to this, if the apocalypse had never bothered to almost start, then Castiel would never have met Dean in the first place. Without the apocalypse, there’s no prophecy, and without the prophecy, Dean would never have crash landed in his backyard.

And if Dean had never crash landed in his backyard, well… Castiel glances at the clock on the nightstand. If Dean had never landed in his garden, he would currently be sitting in his chemistry class learning about ionic bonds or something.

It’s funny, how things work out.

“Besides,” Castiel continues, “Who even knows how I’d die? Like an angel or like a person? If I died like a normal person, I would either go to heaven or hell. If I went to heaven, then whatever, the apocalypse isn’t my problem anymore. If I go to hell, I can just annoy Lucifer into submission and get him to call the whole thing off. It’s not like I’d be going anywhere. I’d have time to learn what grinds his gears the most.”

Castiel thinks on it for a moment.

“I bet it would really aggravate him if I undermined his authority at every possible opportunity.” He adopts a scratchy, growly voice; probably an awful imitation of the devil, “’I told you not to talk to me like that in front of the torture victims! It makes me look weak!’”

He spreads his arms out wide, triumphant

“That would do it, I think. Eventually, he would just throw up his hands and walk out of the room, torture chamber, whatever, and I’ll smugly smile because I’ve finally done it. I stopped the apocalypse through being a little shit.” His eyes gleam over, and he stares off into the middle distance dreamily, “That’s the only way to stop an apocalypse, really. By being a nuisance.” He nods. “It’s very tailored to me.”

Dean just stares at him like a spring has sprung in Castiel’s head that wasn’t supposed to.

“Are you even listening to yourself?” He asks slowly, levelly. “We’re talking about your potential death, here, Cas. Y’know, sort of an important thing.”

“But is it?” Castiel counters, “Because if I’m dead, then what the hell can the Seven do about it? They won’t be able to consolidate all their power again. If I’m dead, then boom. No apocalypse. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. If the big red button can’t be pressed, then no judgement day. No judgement day means a clear conscience, and a clear conscience means I can, well, have a clear conscience, I guess.”

Dean is still staring at him, but it’s changed from a question of whether or not Castiel’s brain has started leaking out of various orifices to a question of whether or not he could have missed the point harder if it was jammed into his eye socket.

“Or,” Dean says, pointedly, “We could kill one of the _other_ Seven.”

Castiel blanches. He really hadn’t thought of that.

“I didn’t think of that,” he says, sort of surprised at himself. He swears he used to enjoy life. Finds that he still does enjoy life. Immensely.

It’s just that suddenly, his life seems like a fair trade if it means the world doesn’t burn.

“That’s what worries me,” Dean mumbles, distraught quiet in his tone but very obviously there.

Castiel ignores it, his inner commentary going haywire. He’s pretty sure his system is frying.

“Who said heaven and earth have to unite against hell, anyways? What a dumb prophecy. I mean, if Satan punishes sinners, isn’t he actually kind of a standup guy? Like, he seems like the kind of person who’s all about just desserts, and I have to say, I’m kind of okay with that? Alternatively, everyone who goes to hell just parties it up down there because Satan is bad and they’re all bad so they’re like kindred spirits or something.”

Castiel angrily ruffles his hair, knowing it won’t do his bedhead any favors in the future.

“Contradictions. _More_ contradictions. It’s all fucked up and things clash and mash and just don’t make any sense at all! You can’t hold a Coke can in one scene and then thirty seconds later it disappears. That’s called a continuity error, and you know what? No one likes them. They suck. They remind you that the story is fake. Your bosses get mad at you. It’s lazy writing, Dean. So you know what? Fuck god the novelist. Fuck god the screenwriter. You know who writes better things than god? Everyone. I could spit on a piece of paper and it would be better than what god wrote. Fuck, someone needs to get that guy an editor and hope god isn’t an entitled piece of shit who doesn’t take constructive criticism well.”

Castiel collapses back onto the bed, trying to end his statement with dramatic flair. It doesn’t really work, though, because the mattress is weirdly bouncy and creaks a lot. He crosses his arms and stares determinedly at the ceiling. Beside him, Dean sighs.

“You know,” he starts hesistantly, like he’s afraid Castiel is going to go off again at any moment; Castiel isn’t actually sure if he will. He hasn’t thought that far ahead yet, “You’re kind of a contradiction yourself.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything, but he knows that if he were a character on a sitcom, the audience would have just _oooooooh_ ed appropriately, because the tables are about to be turned on him. The silence stretches between him and Dean, tense.

“It’s not that I don’t agree with you,” Dean amends hastily, “It’s just that, dude, c’mon. I mean, first off, you’re human. But you’re also an angel. There’s a contradiction right there.” His hand flutters for a moment before resting against Castiel’s neck, soft. “You fought so hard against this thing between us even though you wanted it. You were push and pull for a long time there, man. It was tug-of-war against yourself, and I never even got to play. So there’s contradiction number two.”

He leans forward, presses his mouth to Castiel’s. It’s sweet. The audience _awwwww_ s and there’s not a dry eye in the studio.

“Contradiction number three? You pretend to be this hard assed, jaded person. But you just fucking offered your life to save the world. You’re not what you think you are, Cas. You’re so much better, and I’m so fucking glad that I’m here to tell you that, because _someone_ needs to tell you that.” He kisses Castiel again, presses their foreheads together. Dean’s eyes are shadowed, but Castiel can see how genuine the glints are. “We’re all just a mess of contradictions, Cas. It’s never gonna make sense.”

And that’s the lesson of the episode, apparently. That’s how the writers apologize for their shitty mistakes.

“You accept the bad continuity you think you deserve,” Castiel quotes, somewhat cleverly, he thinks. He shuffles on the bed so that his body is square to Dean’s, facing him directly. “There’s no way you’re okay with things never making sense, Dean.” He thinks of what Dean’s told him about his mother’s death; thinks about how Dean could never let go of it. No way Dean is one to be okay with the natural order.

“I accept what I can’t change,” Dean says, and it’s bullshit. Castiel knows it’s bullshit like he knows that Dean’s the best person he’s ever met.

“Bullshit. Absolute and utter bullshit.”

Dean raises his eyebrows.

“You couldn’t accept your mother’s death at face value. You couldn’t accept heaven’s rules. All you’ve been doing for the majority of this conversation is trying to change my mind, which is currently unchangeable. So, excuse me if I don’t believe the hippy dippy ‘go with the flow’ drivel you’re currently spouting.”

Dean’s shoulder’s drop, and he licks his lips, obviously caught out. He smiles sheepishly, but it’s a put on.

“Obviously can’t get anything by an archangel, can I?” he asks, _aw shucks_ evident in his voice.

“You were trying to give me a pep talk. Trying to be supportive, or something, right?” Castiel puzzles out, and Dean nods. Castiel grimaces. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend to believe something you don’t just to give me a kick in the ass. I know I’m new to this whole relationship thing, but I don’t think it works if people just start spouting off whatever comes to mind to keep the other person on the straight and narrow. If you agree with me, then admit it. Even if it only strengthens my argument to chat up Satan.”

Dean opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, then seems to think better of it and closes it again. He nods, resigned.

“You’re scared, right?” Castiel asks, “Scared that I’ll die if I go talk to the devil. That’s why you don’t want me to do it.” It sounds so fucking simple when Castiel states it like that, sounds like he doesn’t understand the intimacies and intricacies of human conversation, and maybe he doesn’t. But at least this way, everything is clear and out in the open. It’s easy to follow. He figures if he’s going to be in a relationship, then it’s going to be one where both parties actually get to be themselves. Otherwise, what’s the point?

Dean rolls his eyes.

“Yes, Cas. I’m afraid if you so much as even breathe in Lucifer’s general direction then he’s going to murder you. It’s not like he doesn’t have precedent- in his mind, anyways. So sue me for being worried.”

“I’m not going to take you to court, Dean. But I am going to talk to Lucifer. It’s not only our best idea, but our only one.”

“What about the plan where we kill one of the Seven who _isn’t_ you?”

“That’s a possibility, I suppose,” Castiel allows, “Though I doubt, even if all three of us worked together, that we could kill one of them. All that would result from trying is you and Sam getting killed in a most likely painful and drawn out fashion.”

“We could kill one of them if we could just figure out how to turn your mojo back on,” Dean grumbles.

“What if turning my mojo back on somehow ties into the prophecy? What if that’s like… the trigger?”

“The trigger is _us_ ,” Dean reminds Castiel, gesturing between the two of them.

“But if I’m all powered up again, wouldn’t that mean the rest of the Seven become even more powerful as well? They’ll have gotten exactly what they wanted. And then Satan will show up topside without me having talked to him at all.” Castiel shakes his head, “No, I think I’m going to have to remain powerless for this confrontation.”

Dean shakes his head and drops it into his hands.

“The fact that we’re in a position where talking to the devil is our best option probably says a lot about who we are as people.”

“Really really dumb people?” Castiel suggests and smiles wryly.

Dean huffs laughter and places a hand on the back of Castiel’s neck, drawing him in for a kiss.

“Yeah,” he breathes against Castiel’s lips, “Really really dumb.”

***

 They never really got around to discussing the fact that Castiel actually very much is going to have a sit down with Lucifer. But between the sideways glances and the way Dean has been touching Castiel more often than usual, Castiel figures it’s been discussed (and grudgingly accepted) without the peskiness of words getting in the way.

The thing they haven’t discussed yet, wordlessly or not, is how exactly they’re going to pull it off. Satan is kind of an important dude, never mind the fact that he’s currently locked in the Cage (or somewhere close by, no one seems to be really sure, which is worrying enough) and he’s probably sharpening his horns as they speak, ready to impale some humans the moment he’s set free.

“He probably _wants_ to talk to me,” Castiel insists.

“Yeah, sure, let’s pretend like that’s the truth for the moment.” Dean shoots Sam a glance, and Castiel is glad Sam’s managed to work out some better cloaking spells for himself, because with him here, it keeps the conversation from veering towards dangerously declarative levels on his and Dean’s parts. He doesn’t know how many times he can try and explain just how much Dean means to him without his head exploding. Even though he’s better at emotions than he once was, even that seems to be asking a little much.

“It’s still a matter of getting to Lucifer before the big red button gets pressed,” Dean continues, “I mean, he’s in hell, but we don’t know where. Obviously, it won’t be much use once he gets topside.” He levels Castiel with a significant look, “You realize this means you’re taking a trip down under?”

Castiel has realized this, thank you very much. He nods, steely. He’s prepared.

Well, no, he’s not at all. He has no idea what hell is like. No idea which kind of modern interpretation he’ll get, or if it’ll actually be the fire and brimstone of old. He doesn’t know if hell will tailor itself to him, or if it’s the same for everyone. He briefly contemplates how many other people’s hells would consist of them endlessly holding a door open for a never ending slew of people who don’t know how to curtly nod at him in acknowledgement of his good deed, and shudders.

“Y’know,” Sam cuts into Castiel’s philosophical inner discourse on the nature of hell, “Instead of actually sending Cas to hell, which would suck for all involved, maybe we can somehow get Cas to dreamwalk Lucifer? I mean, he is an archangel, somewhere underneath all the humany bits. We could probably wrangle it.”

Castiel is about to voice his support for this idea, when someone else beats him to it.

“What a clever idea, Sam. Didn’t think you had it in you, to be honest.”

Sam, Dean, and Castiel all whirl around in tandem, only to find a battered and beaten Gabriel standing in front of the door of their motel of the week. He’s got shadows that look like bruises under his eyes, and his face is gaunter than the last time they’d seen him. He’s half-heartedly eating a Kit-Kat bar, but he seems to be doing his damndest to pretend that everything is good.

“Gabriel,” Dean greets warily, eyeing the archangel mistrustfully. “Surprised you found us. You don’t look like you’re in any shape to do any kind of tracking.”

Gabriel rolls his eyes.

“Are we really going to do the side-eyes and silent conversations on whether or not I’m trustworthy? I saved your freakin’ asses back there with Zachariah, and I didn’t even ask for a thank you, though it would be appreciated.”

Dean just stares at him stonily, while it seems like Sam is having somewhat of a conniption. To be fair, Gabriel is the first archangel he’s met, other than Castiel, who doesn’t really count.

“Ugh, fine.” Gabriel leans against the door casually, though to Castiel it looks like he actually needs the support. “Remember that sigil that Anna gave you?” At everyone’s nods, Gabriel continues, “Well, right before I sent you mooks away from Zachariah, I clapped you on the shoulder, remember?”

Gabriel chuckles at the horrified looks Dean and Castiel share. It had been such a small moment in all that chaos that they’d completely forgotten about it.

“Yeah, I guess you remember. And judging by your looks, I assume you also remember that, as per the nature of the sigil, as soon as I touched you, it broke?”

Dean looks like he’s about to tear Gabriel apart, piece by piece.

“You piece of-” he starts for Gabriel, who sighs tiredly and flicks a hand, stopping Dean in his tracks. Dean strains against the invisible restraints, but to no avail. “You realize you could have killed us, right?” he growls, “You could have killed _Cas_?”

Gabriel waves a hand dismissively, and the restraints seem to fall away from Dean, who watches Gabriel with hard eyes.

“Nothing happened, guys. Relax. Zachariah and his backup dancers were too busy working me over to bother with you. As soon as I could, I escaped, found you, and now you’re going to redraw the sigil. No harm done.” He pauses for a moment, tacks on, “Besides, we’re getting to the point where the sigil doesn’t even matter anymore. Once this apocalypse is ready to happen, it’s gonna happen. Doesn’t matter if you’re angel’d up or not, Cas. Doesn’t matter if Zachy gets a hold of you. But you should know,” and his gaze is solely trained on Castiel now, eyes steely, but pitying at the same time, somehow, “that if your plan to talk to Luci goes south, then you need to be prepared. Because the only thing that can strike him down is the power of the Seven.”

Castiel figured as much, has worked that bit out as well. Seems like his hand is going to be forced one way or the other. He can tell by the way Dean’s shoulders tighten that he hadn’t made it that far in his thought process yet, and Sam seems to be quietly appalled.

“So you’re saying,” Sam says slowly, laying it out, “that after all we’ve been through, Cas may just have to up and join the Seven after all?”

Gabriel shrugs.

“That’s Castiel’s choice. We’re angels. We can’t _make_ him do anything. Consent issues, remember?”

“It’s going to come down to either us stopping the apocalypse before it begins by convincing Lucifer to just _not_ , me joining the Seven, or letting the world burn,” Castiel states, monotone. “It’s kind of like multiple choice tests, except worse, if that’s possible. Circle A, everyone dies. Circle B, everyone dies. And so on.”

Gabriel nods resignedly.

“Sorry, kiddo. Them’s the breaks.” He points a finger in Castiel’s face, “Hey, at least you aren’t one of those schmucks working a 9-5, eh? No tedious life for you, no sirree. You get the all access fun pass.”

“I’ve got to say, I wouldn’t liken the apocalypse to fun, but to each their own I suppose.” Castiel replies coolly. He tries to ignore the fact that less than three months ago, he was basically thinking along the same lines as Gabriel. Even with all that’s happened, he’s not sure if he could ever go back to his old life, even if he had the chance.

Gabriel waves a hand. “C’mon, guys, what’s more fun than poking the devil with a stick?”

Dean shakes his head, not amused.

“Cut the shit, Gabriel. Just shut the fuck up with the quips and tell us what needs to be done and get out of here, okay? We don’t need another glib asshole who thinks this is all a game.” His tone is pointed and it jabs Castiel sharply in the side, who feels himself instantly rankled.

“I don’t think this is a game, Dean,” he answers, even though the statement was directed at Gabriel. Gabriel and Sam immediately take a metaphorical step back, and Castiel is fully aware that his tone just implied he’s about to get into it again with Dean.

He’s got to admit, out of all futures he ever pictured for himself, he never considered he would turn into one of _those_ guys, who pick fights in public. Then again, he never thought he’d turn out to be a centuries old archangel either, so apparently he’s zero for two in the fortune five hundred.

Dean is looking at him almost mockingly.

“Are you sure, Cas? Because the way you keep talking, with the jokes and the easy martyrdom, I think it might be a different story.”

As per usual, Castiel’s back is up in no time. “What, you think I _want_ to die? You think I’ve just been waiting all these years for an excuse to throw myself into the fire and you’re the one who’s finally given me one?”

“I think you find the notion of sacrificing yourself just a little too easy,” Dean accuses.

“And I think you’re a moron,” is Castiel’s stellar rebuttal. Gabriel actually snorts in the corner of the room he’s found himself in, and Dean narrows his eyes at him.

Castiel takes a deep breath, and tries to remind himself that this argument is circular. He also decides it’s time to remind Dean of that.

“Fine,” Castiel concedes, voice burning in its sincerity. “Fine. You don’t want me to talk to Lucifer? I won’t.”

Dean’s brows rocket to his hairline. Obviously, he wasn’t expecting Castiel to back down. Off to the side, Sam and Gabriel are wearing twin, somewhat hilarious, shocked expressions.

“Uh, Cas-” Gabriel tries to cut in, but Castiel silences him with a palm in his direction.

“Shut up, Gabe. I’m not doing it. Let’s not have the consent discussion again.”

Gabriel looks like he very much wants to argue, but keeps his mouth shut.

Castiel looks at Dean, tries to decipher what’s going on in his head. He can’t.

“So?” He finally ventures, eyes only for Dean. “I’m not talking to him. What do you have to say about that?”

Dean blinks and swallows, and it’s actually kind of funny how speechless he seems. His mouth goldfishes for a moment, and then, somewhat mollified, he nods.

“Well, good,” Castiel says lamely, “I’m glad that’s settled.” He runs his tongue over his teeth, feeling sort of bad for the rug he’s about to pull out from under Dean’s feet, but he can get on board with utilitarianism. It’s a means to an end. Dean will (totally not) thank him for it later.

“So,” he continues, still ignoring Sam and Gabriel, eyeing Dean, “What’s the plan?”

  Dean blanches.

“What?”

“The plan,” Castiel repeats slowly, “The plan where we stop the apocalypse by _not_ talking to Lucifer.”

Realization dawns in Dean’s expression, and his eyes suddenly harden, cold.

“What, because there _is_ no plan other than you talking to Lucifer?” he asks acidly, practically spitting the words. “Is that what I’m supposed to realize, Cas, huh?”

Castiel bites the inside of his cheek, saying nothing. It only seems to enrage Dean further.

“I thought we were done with all this bullshit. I thought we were in this together. What happened to _trying_?” Dean is angry, but the plea in his voice is bleeding through. It does nothing to stop the rush in Castiel’s ears, though. Does nothing to cool his temper when Dean’s trying to turn this back on him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, am I not _trying_?” He hisses, “When I offer the only possible solution to this whole mess, am I not _trying_ hard enough for you, Dean? When I-” he pauses, remembering that him and Dean aren’t the only ones in the room. He turns to Gabriel and Sam, tries not to sound like an asshole when he asks, “Can you guys just… fuck off for a while, please?”

Sam’s eyes are wide, and Gabriel nods slowly.

“Yeah… I’m going to go eat a lot of ice cream. It’s not like we’re on a schedule or anything.” And Gabriel is gone. Sam, other than shooting the two of them pitying looks, doesn’t say anything before popping out of the room.

After they’ve gone, Castiel expects to feel calmer. But he doesn’t. He’s still riled up enough that he’s afraid to look Dean directly in the eyes. Dean is quiet as well, but Castiel can feel the anger radiating off him.

“Am I not _trying_ ,” he says lowly, “when we sleep in the same bed every night? Or how you know how I like my eggs in the morning? Or how all I want to do is save this dumb fucking world because I know how much you love it? Because if that’s not trying, Dean, if me ripping open my chest and letting you root around inside isn’t trying, then fucked if I know anything about anything at all. Because I fucking think I’m trying my goddam best because I love you so much.”

Dean is shaking his head.

“You know what a relationship is, Cas? Two people who work at it _together_. All you’ve ever wanted to do is blaze ahead by yourself. You don’t want help, even though you need it. You refuse to ask for it, even when I offer.”

Castiel doesn’t understand. He legitimately is not following Dean’s logic.

“What are you _talking_ about?” he sputters, forcing a hand through his hair, a throbbing sensation popping up behind his eyes. “I sit down and touch you, to calm you. You do the same to me.” The absurdity is starting to hit him, “ _In front of other people_ ,” he hisses, like that’s the most important thing. And maybe it is. Maybe it’s not. Declarations are hard enough on their own, Castiel knows that well. Declarations in front of other people, quiet as they may be, are a whole other story. There’s witnesses, then. Proof that Dean and Castiel are not just Dean and Castiel when they’re alone, but are always Dean and Castiel, regardless of company. It’s upgrading from a part time job to a managerial position, and suddenly Castiel’s getting a dental plan. It’s a lot.

And Castiel doesn’t know. All he knows is that maybe he’s so far removed from people, from relationships and relating to people in general, that what they’re doing, this thing, at its core, isn’t what it should be. He loves Dean. It’s not a question, so he doesn’t dwell on it. It’s the idea that maybe he doesn’t know _how_ to love Dean that’s starting to niggle at him.

He certainly doesn’t know how to love himself, and he doesn’t know how to love his family. Why should Dean be any different?

And yet, Dean is standing in front of him, seething. His jaw is hard and tight, and Castiel knows he’s gritting his teeth hard enough to hurt. His eyes are harsh and defiant. His arms are crossed.

But Castiel can see, finally. It’s been a long time coming, but he can see.

Dean is only angry because Castiel is so damn cavalier about his own life. A life that Dean _cares_ about. Because Dean’s eyes are hard, but they’re worried, too. Afraid. Maybe he’s afraid of the Satan thing, or maybe he’s afraid because he thinks things between them are shifting again, and not in a good direction.  Maybe it’s both. Castiel isn’t a mind reader, never wants to be. But in the light of a fight about Castiel’s life, one that he’s content to throw away and Dean is determined to save, Castiel _sees_.

What he feels for Dean is what Dean feels for him. It’s reciprocity.

A simple component in relationships, for sure, but one that’s sort of eluded Castiel. He’s been aware of Dean’s feelings the whole time, has both manipulated them and realized them. Has even reveled in them. But it’s the fourth wall breaking, out-of-body experience that he’s having right now that’s really showing Castiel what this looks like to Dean. Here he is, basically bargaining his life away in bits and pieces, ready to parley with a being that’s not exactly known for following the code, and more likely to tear him into little bits and store him for the winter, and he’s fighting Dean on it. Dean just wants to protect him, wants him to be okay, and Castiel is actively turning him away.

If the tables were turned, Castiel would do exactly what Dean is doing, except probably ruder.

Dean is just clinging to Castiel, scrabbling at his coat tails, because Castiel still isn’t used to walking with someone. Obviously, he wasn’t present for the cooperation activities in preschool. It’s sort of always been Castiel versus the world.

Except now that it’s Castiel and the world versus everything else, he might want to learn a little bit about working with other people. Especially good people. People like Dean.

“Are you done, yet?” Dean asks sullenly, “I can tell when you’re thinking in big paragraphs, you know. It’s basically like the rolling credits at the beginning of _Star Wars_.”   

Castiel takes a hesitant step forwards, wary that just because he’s had a paragraphs long discussion with himself doesn’t mean Dean has done the same.

“Dean, you have to understand that I _don’t_ ,” Castiel explains, taking another step. Dean holds his ground.

“Don’t understand what?” Dean asks, still guarded. Castiel doesn’t blame him, since he pulled the wool over his eyes not twenty minutes ago. Unfortunately, falling in love with a good person doesn’t make him any less of a dick.

“This.” Castiel gestures between the two of them. “These.” He makes an all-encompassing gesture, as if to include all couples in existence. “Social skills. I can’t people, and I can’t relationship.”

“First off, those aren’t verbs, Cas. Second, that doesn’t make any sense.”

Castiel sighs deeply, feels the last of the fight slide out of his shoulders.

“Relationships, Dean. I have no basis. Nothing to judge by. I don’t know what to do, and I don’t know what to say, and I don’t know what means what. I don’t know how to work together and I don’t know how to exist in my own space when I’m currently sharing it with another person.”

Dean scoffs.

“Not this again, Cas. Your relationship phobia is seriously whacked, and that’s coming from me, a non-committer if there ever was one. You’re doing fine. You do realize that not all relationships are that homogenized crap Hollywood spits out, right? They’re fucking diverse with their own quirks and black marks and checkered pasts. Not everybody can be John and Jane Smith with two point five children and a white picket fence, y’know? Sometimes there’s just gotta be same-sex, sort-of-not-really interspecies, star crossed, yet destined to be together couples.” He shrugs. “To spice things up.”

“For someone who claims to be a ‘non-committer’ as well, you certainly seem to know a lot about relationships,” Castiel observes.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Ugh, really, Cas? That was a damn good speech and that’s all you’re gonna give me? Christ, I practised in the mirror with note cards and everything.”

Castiel shrugs, and Dean acquiesces with a huff.

“Relationships are more than dick touching, nimrod. I may not have a lot of them, but I’m damn committed to my family. To Sam. And now, to you.”

Castiel chews on this information. It’s not really a matter of weighing options, but more of digesting them. He can give, at least a little.

“Okay,” he says, finally. “Alright. I’m still going to talk to Lucifer, but we’ll get there together, at least. Because that’s what people in relationships do.”

Dean rolls his eyes again, but a fond smile is spreading across his face nonetheless.

“No, it’s what _we_ do,” he corrects, and leans in to kiss Castiel.

When their mouths are moments away from meeting, a voice that’s _very_ not Sam or Gabriel and _very_   female (and familiar) interrupts them.

“That was heartwarming, and I even had to dab my eyes with a hanky, boys. Too bad it’s all moot.” Castiel whirls around, feels Dean do the same beside him. He’s pretty sure jaw is currently acting as his third foot with how far its dropped, because he’s staring at a face he hasn’t seen in months, and one he never thought he’d see again.

“Hello, boys,” Ms. Blake, his old English teacher, steps forward. She blinks, and her eyes flash white. “I’m Lilith.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> L Squared tag team, and Castiel needs to learn to stop thinking in big blocks of text.

To say that a frog is in Castiel’s throat is an understatement. In fact, he thinks it would still be an understatement if he _actually_ swallowed a frog.

He’s a little hazy on the date, but he knows it has been a long time since he’s seen Ms. Blake. He’s also fairly certain he’s never seen Ms. Blake look at him like she plans to invite him to dinner and then stick him in an oven and proclaim, with a witchy cackle, that _he’s_ what’s for dinner.

“I don’t mean to force anybody’s hand,” Lilith says lightly, sounding as though that’s exactly what she means to do, “but angels aren’t the only ones who have been watching you for a long time, Castiel.” She smiles at him, but it just makes Castiel’s blood run cold, “We were getting impatient for our turn.”

She settles on the bed opposite Dean and Castiel with the air of a business woman. Ms. Blake was never exactly a stuffy dresser, but the dress she has on now, virginal white contrasted with a plunging neckline, seems to accentuate the inherent wrongness of the situation.

Not to mention, of course, that Ms. Blake is currently not occupying her own body.

“What the hell are you doing in her?” Dean demands hotly from next to him. Castiel remembers Dean swearing up and down that he had a fling with her, but he’s fairly, almost one hundred percent certain that was just Dean being Dean. “You could have chosen anyone, and you go for the high school English teacher?” he’s trying to play up the bravado, and maybe it’s just because Castiel has spent so long with him, but he can hear the tremor in Dean’s voice, easy, “I mean, c’mon. That’s gotta be a little tame for Lucifer’s lieutenant, don’t you think?”

Lilith smiles, sickly sweet.

“I’m not sure, Dean Winchester. It certainly got a fun reaction out of _you_ , didn’t it?” She glances down at Ms. Blake’s body, assessing. “You lusted after this body.” She raises an eyebrow at Castiel, addressing him now. “You, not so much.”

Dean scoffs.

“I would lust after anything that’s willing, lady. I promise you that.”

Lilith shrugs primly.

“It’s beside the point. This body is nice and warm. A vessel. I’m not picky.”

“That dress says otherwise,” Castiel mumbles, and it sort of hits him that maybe he and Dean should be treating Lucifer’s right hand with just a little bit more respect.

But then he remembers that in the last couple of months, he’s come up against angels, archangels, ghosts, and, worst of all, his own intimacy issues. So maybe he doesn’t need to be nice after all. Doesn’t mean he’s not going to wet his pants in three seconds, though.

Lilith, to her credit, just smiles.

“Different standards, I suppose.” She crosses her legs and interlocks her fingers, obviously ready to talk shop. “Let’s not beat around the bush anymore, gentlemen.” She fixes her gaze on Castiel, and Castiel tries to remind himself that this is progress, and they are in no way going up against something that’s going to squish them like bugs. “I’m here because Lucifer would like to talk to you, Castiel.”

Castiel swallows, and to him it feels like one of those comically large ones that people in cartoons do. Unfortunately, he’s not a cartoon character and nobody laughs at his sudden flop sweat.

“Would he?” Castiel asks, trying not to let his bravado crack.

Lilith nods, and speaks as if a great gift is being bestowed upon Castiel.

“We know that you want something from him, Castiel. He wants something from you as well.”

“And what’s that?” Dean remains uncharacteristically quiet beside him, and Castiel wonders if this is him showing his support for Castiel’s decision. (No matter the fact that Lilith showing up kind of forced his hand, anyways. So much for free will.) But Dean’s trying, anyways. So he gets the credit regardless.

“To talk to you,” Lilith says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Her face is reverent. “He just wants to talk.”

Castiel licks his lips, can practically hear the wheels turning in Dean’s head.

“Y’know, I’m starting to get creepy uncle vibes off this guy,” Castiel comments lightly, trying to buy himself time to think. Really, he just gets Lilith ignoring him and his brain buzzing quietly with white noise.

“No tricks,” Lilith promises, cajoles. “Contrary to popular belief, Lucifer doesn’t lie. Not like your precious winged friends lie, anyways.”

Point, devil. Sometimes it still weirds Castiel out that heaven kind of sucks. If heaven kind of sucks, and hell most definitely sucks, and earth is even worse, then why the hell has Castiel bothered holding doors open for people his entire life? All it’s going to do is get him into a slightly less shitty afterlife.

Maybe he should give Hinduism a try. Or scientology. Anything to get him out of this mess. He wonders idly if he just stopped believing in everything Dean’s told him, if everything related to it would just disappear to his eyes. That’s how belief works, right? Then again, if he did that, then _he_ would disappear as well. But what if he truly believed that he _wasn’t_ an archangel? Would that change anything?

Then he remembers that he’s supposed to be in the middle of a negotiation that may possibly decide the fate of the world, and he figures he should shelve the philosophical debates for less practical times.

“And let me guess,” Dean finally finds his voice, razor sharp, “Cas is gonna have to go on a little trip down under for this little powwow, huh?”

Lilith smiles a secret smile that Castiel doesn’t like at all.

“No.” she says simply. “Lucifer is already risen.”

Dean’s mouth open but no sound comes out, and Castiel likens him to a goldfish. To be fair, he’s not doing much better.

“No. No no no. No no no _no_.” Dean scrubs a hand over his jaw, little huffs of hysterical laughter dribbling out the corners of his mouth. “No no no no. _No_.”

Lilith shrugs delicately, both hands clasped on her knee.

“Yes.”

“No,” Dean corrects. “ _No_.” He shakes his head. “Lucifer is in hell. He’s in the Cage or buried so deeply beneath layers of brimstone that it would be impossible for him to rise without someone, _somewhere_ hearing about it.”

“Believe me or not, Winchester. He’s risen. He walks among us.”

“Well then where are the rivers of blood? Raining frogs? Locusts? Whatever the hell your apocalypse is supposed to being?” Castiel practically demands. “I don’t see any first born sons being slaughtered on door steps.”

“The world has evolved, Satan with it.” Lilith explains, endlessly patient. “You live in a world of instant gratification and so much _noise_.” She wrinkles her nose in distaste, as if the screams of the damned in hell are nothing compared to a construction site outside the window. “Lucifer just strolled out of hell quietly, and he was immediately swallowed up in the hustle and bustle of your world. He was initiated just by the flow of the crowd, and they let him right in.”

There’s probably a lesson somewhere in there, but Castiel really doesn’t care about that. He doesn’t have time for life lessons when the devil literally walks among them.

“How the fuck did he escape hell?” Dean asks suspiciously. “The angels don’t even know about this yet.”

“And they won’t,” Lilith vows, and it has the undercurrent of a threat. “So long as you don’t tell them.”

Dean lets out a bray of laughter, the kind that would echo around a cavernous underground secret layer, had they had the foresight to invest in one.

“Look, I know the angels are dicks, but do you really think I would sit on a bombshell like that? Newsflash, he’s the devil. He’s going to fuck shit up. People need to be warned.”

Lilith is shaking her head infinitesimally, and Castiel can almost hear her _tsk_ ing because they just _don’t get it_ yet.

“Lucifer hasn’t harmed a single being yet,” she promises, and Castiel believes her. “He’s just been…” she searches for a word, twirls her wrist in a manner that indicates, _you know the phrase_. “scouting the place out.” She finally decides on. “He’s never been to earth, you know.”

Castiel feels the surprise on his face, slides his gaze over to Dean, who looks unimpressed.

“So what if he hasn’t killed anyone yet,” Dean argues, “Obviously he’s just looking for the best place to launch hell nukes from.”

Deigning to ignore Dean, Lilith shakes Ms. Blake’s head slightly. “Lucifer is offering you a deal,” the statement is directed at Castiel, who immediately straightens up. He can only imagine the offense Lucifer would take if he heard that his once charge listened to his proposal _slumping_. Castiel feels like Lucifer is one of those guys who gets offended easily, and needs his masculinity validated a lot.

“He doesn’t kill anyone, he doesn’t start an apocalypse,” Lilith continues, “if you go and see him.”

Castiel scoffs.

“And what, as soon as I turn my back, Armageddon?”

“That depends on how your discussion goes, wouldn’t you think?”

“This feels a lot less like negotiations and a lot more like blackmail,” Castiel mumbles begrudgingly. He may be talking to the devil’s right hand, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be a petulant child.

“Take it however you want, Castiel. He’s offering you a choice.”

“Mmhm.” Castiel glances at Dean, whose face is currently unreadable. He figures Dean would have stepped up by now if he had something he wanted to say in front of Lilith, and assumes they’re going to have a hell of a private discussion once this little meeting is over.

“How, exactly, did Lucifer rise?” Castiel asks, something he feels should have been the first question that popped out of his mouth once that particular bomb was dropped. “As far as I know- which, admittedly, isn’t very far- the only way Lucifer can rise is as a result of this prophecy me and Dean are a part of.”

Lilith raises her eyebrows in a _yes, and_?

“ _And_ ,” Castiel stresses, “I just kind of assumed… y’know… that the trigger hadn’t… triggered yet.”

A slight smirk tugs at the corners of Lilith’s mouth. She looks between Dean and Castiel knowingly, takes in the way they’re slightly turned towards each other, the way their fingers are only a hair’s breadth apart. Maybe she can see that connection between them that Castiel felt way back when in English class, when he still felt the need to wax poetic about such things.

“Trust me,” she says, “It’s triggered.”

Well. Castiel had kind of expected thunder and lightning, evil cackling, dramatic music; even a fucking _memo_ , at least.

“Oh,” he says.

“The thing about prophecies,” Lilith says slowly, like she wants every word to sink in, “is that they’re very vague on things like timelines and people and events. Pretty much everything, actually. To be honest, most prophecies are nothing but ravings. They are malleable, can be made into any shape. Mold it how you like.”

Castiel nods, and remembers Balthazar saying things along the same lines.

“Okay. Duly noted. But why the fuck are you telling us any of this?”

Lilith sits forward at this, eyes sparking.

“Do you think Lucifer _wants_ to be bound by this prophecy any more than you do? He rebelled against heaven, against God Himself. He’s not interested in any _holy_ prophecy. We are not your enemies, Castiel.”

“You’re certainly not our fucking friends,” Dean informs her.

Somehow, that fact doesn’t seem to bother her much.

“Allies don’t have to be friends. We have common goals.”

“And what goals are those?” Castiel asks.

“Making sure the Seven never consolidate their power again.”

“Okay, super,” Dean says, “Have Lucifer go and rip Zachariah’s face off, and then we can all go home happy.”

Lilith settles a cool gaze on him.

“Do you think we haven’t considered that? Centuries in hell, and you think we haven’t considered that?”

Dean shrugs.

“I just figured you guys played a lot of poker.”

Lilith ignores him once again, and Castiel feels a surge of kinship with the demon. He likes to ignore Dean, too. Maybe they can make a club with a ‘no Deans allowed’ sign in a treehouse and then sit up there all afternoon and talk about the silly things Dean says.

Then again, she’s also wearing Castiel’s former English teacher, so there’s probably a conflict of interest in there somewhere.

“It’s not _easy_ to kill one of the Seven.” She glances at Castiel. “Except you, actually. In your current state, you’d die just like any other human.”

Castiel suddenly feels much frailer. How pathetic would it be, one of the mighty Seven archangels of the lord, dead because he ate a bad taco or something.

Lilith rolls her eyes.

“No one is going to kill you. Not only do you have four out of seven archangels protecting you, but you also have myself and Lucifer.”

“Where the hell were you when I was getting the crap kicked out of me when we did that hunt, then?”

Lilith levels a glare at him. “We’re not here to hold your hand. You aren’t a toddler. We only intervene when absolutely necessary. I assume the rest of the archangels follow the same guidelines.”

Dean has the bridge of his nose pinched between his thumb and forefinger. Castiel can sympathize.

“How, then, do we kill one of the Seven?”

Lilith shakes her head and stands up.

“This conversation has gone on long enough. I’m just the messenger.” She turns to Castiel fully, “Castiel. Will you meet with Lucifer or not?”

Castiel swallows. Nods. Dean tenses beside him.

“Excellent.” She strides forward, and Castiel recoils slightly; can’t help it. All she does, however, is grip his palm in a handshake he thinks might have broken a metacarpal or two. He feels a fast, sizzling burn; smells something like bacon. Lilith lets go of his hand, and curtly nods at the two of them.

“This can work, if you’re willing.” She nods at the sigil that she just burned into Castiel’s palm. “That allows Lucifer to find you, but doesn’t affect the sigil you’ve already drawn on. Be prepared to speak to him.” Her voice suddenly goes uncharacteristically soft. “He’s missed you.”

And she’s gone, and Dean and Castiel are alone again.

They stand in silence for a few moments before Dean strides to the nightstand and lays into the innocent lamp sitting there. It shatters dramatically.

“God _damn_ it!” he yells, ruffling his hands through is hair in agitation. He paces, up and down the alley between the beds.

Because he’s an asshole, Castiel amends Dean’s statement.

“Lucifier damn it?”

“Not the time, Cas.”

Castiel lets Dean pace and worry himself out. He remains sitting on the bed, and eventually, Dean sits down heavily beside him, shoulders slumped. Their knees bump.

“So,” Castiel lets out a breath, “We actually did it. We started the apocalypse.”

“Yep.”

Castiel surveys the room.

“It’s not as dramatic as I thought it would be. I’m almost disappointed.”

“You totally just jinxed it.”

“I’m not actually disappointed. I was being sarcastic.”

“I know.”

Dean puts a hand on Castiel’s forearm, grips it tightly.

“Most of the kids my age have barely accomplished learning how to operate a motor vehicle. We’re pretty far ahead of the curve,” Castiel comments.

“Obviously.”

He leans into Dean slightly, enough to feel the head radiating off him.

“We did it together, though. It’s the thought that counts, or something, right? That’s how that saying goes?”

Dean huffs laughter that doesn’t sound like laughter. It sounds like he’s choking back tears.

“Man, we’re gonna need so much couple’s counselling when this is over,” he says.

“Hey, the couple that ends the world together stays together.”

Dean turns his face into Castiel’s neck, presses a kiss there, but doesn’t answer.

***

It’s not as much of a discussion as Castiel thought it would be. There’s a lot more naked rutting in response to Lilith’s visit than he originally thought, though.

Now that they’re kind of a _thing_ , (a world ending _thing_ , no less) he’s very unsurprised how much Dean likes to keep his declarations physical. When Dean runs his knuckles down Castiel’s cheek, letting his thumb trail softly behind, he’s saying a whole lot more than words ever could. When Dean runs hands up and down Castiel’s bare thighs until they’re trembling, when he dips his head between Castiel’s legs and goes to work, it’s more than Castiel ever thought anything could be. When Castiel presses into Dean, keening, beneath him, he leans their foreheads together and whispers nonsense, because he doesn’t really know what to say.

Their actions speak volumes, though.

Castiel learns a lot about Dean in the coming weeks. They’re waiting on the devil, and as much as Lilith talked a good game, Castiel isn’t sure he’s going to come out of this encounter in one piece. Every interaction between him and Dean is tinged with the possibility that it could be their last time, and Castiel can taste the bitterness in the air between their mouths.

Naturally, he does his best to close that distance as much as possible. He’s much too bitter a person to welcome anymore into his life. He doesn’t even like coffee.

Dean is tender, exceptionally so. In the time after Lilith’s visit, he’s probably as quiet as Castiel’s ever seen him. He touches Castiel, though. Fleeting, staccato things, as if Dean is afraid to press into him for too long, like he’ll disappear under the slight pressure. As far as Castiel knows, Lucifer could be the kind of dick to whirl him away mid-coitus, so he really can’t blame Dean.

They’re on the precipice, and Castiel’s just waiting for the gust of wind to send him tumbling, end over end, into the open air. The only problem with that metaphor is that it ends up with him smeared all over the ground, and he’s not a huge fan of that particular outcome. Especially the fact that he just found out there’s an afterlife, and since he’s an angel, he wouldn’t get to partake.

He considers the irony that humans get heaven or hell, whereas angels probably get nothing. Maybe it makes sense that Dean’s an atheist after all.

Gabriel and Sam aren’t big fans of the whole ‘waiting on Lucifer’ game, but they understand that they have to play, regardless.

When Dean and Castiel explain their encounter with Lilith, Gabriel’s brows furrow immediately after.

“I thought I would have felt something, when Lucifer rose,” he admits quietly, contemplatively. “It’s strange.”

Castiel shrugs. “Lilith said a lot about how he’s adapted, how he just blends in with the crowd.”

Gabriel accepts Castiel’s point with a nod.

“Well, he certainly doesn’t have horns and a pitchfork, if that’s what you’re thinking. He probably just looks like any normal guy,” Gabriel considers something, “Or lady,” he adds thoughtfully.

“Excellent,” Castiel says, deadpan, “We’ve narrowed it down to literally anyone on the planet. I’ll take the southern hemisphere, you guys take the north. Interview _everyone_ , and in exactly six hundred and thirty five years, once we’re finally done, we’ll meet up in London and compare notes. Lucifer doesn’t stand a chance against our masterful deductive skills.”

A collective sigh emerges from the group.

“Listen, smartass,” Gabriel snips, glaring sharply at Castiel, “This isn’t the time for your weird, verbose sense of humor, okay? We have a rogue archangel to deal with. One of your _brothers_ , if you recall.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Not this shit again, Gabe. Sorry, but you’re not my family. Lucifer is most definitely _not_ my family. Trying to guilt me on a familial basis is not a good tactic, and I thought you would have learned that by now. We’re uneasy allies, at best. Why do I have to spell this out for you?” he appeals to the room at large, aware on a lesser brain power level that he’s being a major hardass, but he can’t bring himself to care. Dean is in his life now, Sam to a lesser extent. He can only take so much new family at once, and he’s also still extremely aware of the fact that Gabe thought a magical mystery tour on the magic school bus would be a good idea. There’s no way he’s related-even spiritually- to someone like that.

It’s not hurt that flashes in Gabriel’s eyes- the feeling is somewhat mutual, apparently- but disquiet. Obviously, Gabriel’s persuasive tactics need some fine tuning.

Gabriel shakes his head.

“So we wait, then,” he says dully. Then, “No offense, but you guys are all downers. Cas, man, if you completely fail in your chitchat with Luci, the world ends, and I don’t want my last days spent with Gigantor and the Babes,” he tips an imaginary hat, “I am of no more use to you. Good luck, gents. Chaio.”

And Gabriel disappears.

“I assume that was his way of saying that he was going to try and suss out Lucifer’s vessel?” Castiel asks, an open question.

Sam and Dean shrug in tandem.

“I wouldn’t blame him for just getting the hell outta Dodge,” Dean admits, “Though I think he cares about the other angels too much to just up and go.”

“So then what do _we_ do in the meantime?” Castiel asks. _Before I have to go shoot the breeze with the prince of darkness_ remains unsaid.

“Research?” Sam offers meekly, and Castiel swears he sees Dean’s eye twitch.

“We ain’t gonna find the solution in any book,” Dean says tiredly. In their off days, (which have been _many-_ the apocalypse is actually a lot slower and a lot more boring than he expected) they’ve done copious amounts of research between science fiction marathons. Castiel thinks he’s read the Bible about seven times overall by now, because Dean still refuses to read it. They’ve picked through book after book, to no avail, and Castiel knows that Sam-whenever he gets the chance to peruse and isn’t being chased through multiple dimensions by various archangel henchmen- has also exhausted the majority of his resources.

Castiel can’t voice his agreement quick enough.

“No more books,” he approves.

Silence falls over the group, with nobody having another option to offer. Sam rocks back and forth on his feet, like if he’s not moving in some capacity, he’ll cease to exist. Dean is- well, typical Dean. Coiled and ready to spring at anything that moves strangely. He’s all tight lines and taught jaw, and if Castiel didn’t know him, he would laugh because Dean obviously has a stick up his ass. And then Castiel would feel bad because for all the stick-in-ass action he’s seen during his life, he may as well be a scarecrow, and shouldn’t be throwing stones.

As for him, he’s just existing. He’s going to talk to Satan at some point in the near (possibly very near) future. That’s enough for him.

Finally, Dean sighs.

“I don’t fucking know, man. We’re basically caught between the devil and some assholes, and I have no fucking clue who to trust. Like, who even knows if Lilith is telling the truth about Lucifer rising?”

Sam shrugs.

“We’ve got to pick and choose who we trust,” he grins wanly, wryly, “after all, isn’t that what free will is all about?”

Dean groans.

“Free will and I are sleeping in separate beds at the moment.”

“Fair enough,” Sam allows, running a hand through his hair, contemplative look on his face, “Look, Dean, what if-” he hesitates, rolling his shoulders back.

“What if you what, Sam?” The suspicion in Dean’s voice is already ringing alarm bells in Castiel’s head.

“What if… I mean, since we’re apparently _connected_ or something… what if _I_ talk to Lilith?”

Castiel cringes. He can’t help it. He chances a glance at Dean, whose face is bone white.

There’s a much heavier silence this time, one that Castiel is fairly certain could suffocate them all if allowed to continue.

“I’m sorry…” Dean says quietly, “Run that by me again?”

Sam clears his throat, voice going up and down in pitch at random intervals, “What if, ah, I talk to Lilith?”

“…One more time, Sam.”

“Jesus, Dean.”

“One more _fucking_ time, Sam. Like I’m five.”

“Fuck, Dean. I’m going to talk to Lilith, okay? I’m going to feel her out, see what else she knows.”

Dean scratches the back of his neck and huffs out a laugh that is extremely unimpressed.

“First Cas, now you? Fucking martyrs, the both of you.”

“I would be careful who you’re calling martyr, Dean,” Sam warns, and Castiel gets the feeling this is another one of those things that are just between Sam and Dean, a bit of shared history that he’s not yet privy to.

Dean nods enthusiastically.

“Yeah, Sam, for _sure_. Because that’s the same fucking thing as you two morons sticking your necks out for Lucifer and Lilith and handing them boots made for stomping. I just-” he stops mid sentence, like it’s suddenly too much for him to handle. He scrubs a  hand over his face, and turns his back to both Sam and Castiel for a minute. Castiel and Sam share a look, and then Dean is turning around again. “You can’t do that to me, man. Cas is already-” he stops again, sends Castiel a look with the biggest bag of mixed emotions he’s ever seen, “we’re already sacrificing enough, Sam. So no. You’re not talking to Lilith.”

It’s said genuinely, and Castiel wants to reach out and place a hand on Dean’s arm. Sam’s hackles just seem to be rising, though, and Castiel understands that too. He’s never had siblings (unless all the freaking angels count, which they certainly do not), but he’s observed enough sibling interactions to know that the younger ones don’t often enjoy being bossed around by the older ones.

Then again, Castiel and Sam are obviously very important to Dean, and in a very short time frame, both of them have volunteered to die. Castiel figures its got to wear on a guy after a while.

“You know that you actually can’t stop me from doing it, right?” Sam challenges.

Dean snorts, derisive.

“Yeah, Sam, I know. But if you recall, I’m the one who usually stops you from doing the really stupid shit. _This_ -” he gestures around them, another flea bag motel- “is stupid shit.”

“By that logic, helping you guys at all is stupid shit.”

“I never said it wasn’t,” Dean fires back, “But it’s a lot less stupid than literally handing yourself over to Lilith.”

“You’re talking about Lilith, who I have a real, tangible connection with? The connection that _you_ were so eager to tell me about in the first place?”

Castiel wonders if another lamp is going to get broken. He contemplates buying Dean a stress ball. It would save the well-being of many lamps in the future.

“Yeah, I told you about it so that I could warn you away from it, you idiot. Not run blindly into it.”

“It’s something _useful_ , Dean. A lead. How long ago did Zachariah hint at Lilith being a clue? We need to use it.”

While Dean makes dramatic gestures, Castiel takes the opportunity to unhelpfully intervene.

“We fight a lot,” he observes neutrally. He’s ignored.

“Use it _smartly_ ,” Dean emphasizes slowly, “This is not smart.”

Sam stares at Dean like his brain is leaking out various orifices.

“When do we ever do things smartly?” Sam asks, genuinely bewildered. “We blunder into more things than an overgrown baby, Dean. Remember the axis mundi debacle?”

Dean, despite being extremely pissed off, breaks into a dopey grin and nods.

“We were stuck on that thing for like two years,” he reminisces, chuckling. Then, like a switch being flipped, he comes back to himself, like he’s remembering that he’s in the middle of a fight. “Stop trying to distract me, Sam. We’re fighting.”

Sam rolls his eyes.

“I wasn’t trying to distract you, I was trying to make a point. You’re just easily distracted.”

Dean glares at him, but the heat is gone from his eyes. The fight has simmered out, even though Castiel is sure it’s far from over. He wonders briefly what two angels fighting in their true forms would look like. He once watched a movie featuring a giant shark and mega octopus, and that’s the image that’s now burned into his brain of angelic true forms.

He thanks his brain, offers it to step out whenever it feels the need, because it’s sure as shit not doing much to help him at the moment. 

“We really do fight a lot,” Castiel comments in the silence after the fight.

“That’s the apocalypse for you,” Dean says, “It’s not like it brings out the _best_ in people.”

“At least we have enough fights running parallel to each other that we can’t spend more than a few minutes on each one,” Sam grimaces.

“Sub plots,” Castiel tacks onto Sam’s statement.

Dean raises his eyebrows.

“You’ve been watching too much tv, man.”

Castiel _tsk_ s, shaking his head.

“You’re breaking the fourth wall, Dean. We don’t have enough seasons in us for that. We’re not at that level of self-mockery quite yet.”

“Dude, I watch tv, I don’t live it.”

“We’re at the center of an apocalypse started by ourselves, the victims of an unwanted prophecy that will challenge both our relationship with each other and ourselves, locked in a battle of wits against angels, devils, free will, and possibly god himself. Trust me, Dean, you’re living it.”

Dean shakes his head slowly, lets out a slow whistle.

“Can you believe this guy?” he asks, turning to Sam, who seems much more entertained than Dean is.

Sam shrugs, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“It’s a pretty fitting description, actually.”

“Ugh.” Dean’s disgust is palpable in his voice. “My life is not for consumption, and it sure as hell isn’t a tv show. I feel violated.”

Castiel waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. You’re not complicated enough to be the protagonist anyways.”

Even though he claimed to want nothing to do with the show, Dean seems offended.

“Oh, so that heavy lifting falls to you, I assume?”

Castiel shrugs.

“There are no small parts, only small actors,” is his placating line. “You can be the love interest.”

“Oh, fucking great.”

“If it makes you feel any better, you’re a long term love interest. You even get main billing.”

Dean face is an excellent combination of him wondering how he managed to get himself into this, and him valiantly trying not to enjoy it, “Why are we having this conversation, again?”

“Because you’re a limelight stealer, and you want your own spin off.”

“Hey, what about me?” Sam interrupts, “Where am I in this show?”

“The annoying little brother,” Dean grunts, before turning back to Castiel. Sam looks properly offended.

“My spin off would do better than your angst happy show, buddy.”

“My quips are a veritable gold mine and the critics love my quirkiness.”

“I have sex appeal.”

“I have awesome appeal.”

“That’s not even a thing.”

“It is now. I just created it.”

“You can’t just create things.”

“Weren’t you listening? I just did.”

Castiel is smirking, and Dean is smirking, and out of the corner of his eye, Castiel can see Sam getting more and more uncomfortable. Obviously he feels the spike in tension just as strongly as Castiel can. The unfortunate thing for Sam, though, is that he’s not going to get laid because of it.

“Y’know, guys, I’m actually… gonna take off for now, okay?” Castiel feels the air vibrating, knows that Sam is about to disappear, when he manages to get in the last word, “I would be the _best_ protagonist, by the way. Jackasses,” he mumbles, and pops out of this plane of existence. Or to go create his own theme music.

 “This is the part where I- the protagonist- succumbs to the sexual tension between myself and the love interest, and we finally get it on,” Castiel instructs, taking a step closer to Dean.

Dean raises an eyebrow.

“We’ve already gotten it on. Many times.”

Castiel nods his head to the side, eyes sliding in the same direction, as if he’s trying to draw Dean’s attention to something.

“ _They_ don’t know that,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth, indicating the non-existent audience.

“Ah.” Dean nods, playing along, and takes his own step to close the distance between himself and Castiel.

Dean leans close, lips at Castiel’s ear.

“We’ll give them a show, then,” he murmurs playfully, placing a kiss on Castiel’s neck.

“I thought your life wasn’t for consumption?” Castiel asks, trying for flippancy, but breath hitching a little as Dean nips at his ear lobe. He feels Dean grin against his skin.

 “My life may not be. But _I_ am,”

Dean may be doing _things_ to him at the moment, but a line that bad needs to be called out immediately.

“That was a terrible line, and frankly, I’m embarrassed for you. You need to fire your writers.”

“Thanks for the advice,” Dean says, before kissing Castiel, effectively shutting him up.

***

The day that Castiel runs into Lucifer isn’t actually a day at all. It’s night, and he’s dreaming.

A smorgasbord of random moments; kissing Dean, an empty staircase, a dog wearing a party hat, it’s all jumbled up, a wash of color and sound that Castiel will never remember come morning.

And then it all comes to a standstill, like a record scratch. Castiel feels like himself, weight to his limbs and consciousness unlike in most dreams he’s ever had, minus the dreamwalking ones.

So he’s currently being dreamwalked. Dreamstalked?

He’s nowhere special. It looks like a waiting room at a dentists’ office, inoffensive colors and old copies of People magazine everywhere. He’s sitting in a moderately comfortable chair, and idly muses that an angel should be able to spring for something a little cushier, at least.

This is different than all the other times he’s been dreamwalked. There’s no oppressive feeling over his mind, nothing clouding his emotions. This dream has a different flavor. He feels more himself here.

“That’s because we want to communicate honestly, Castiel. There will be no manipulation here.”

As if she just blinked into existence, there’s Lilith, in the same dress (and same English teacher) she was wearing the last time they met, sitting in the chair across from him.

“And yet somehow you manage to read my thoughts?” Castiel asks, arching a brow. “That’s comforting.”

Lilith shrugs, though it’s not a dismissive thing.

“We need to have some security, you understand.”

“’We’”? Castiel clarifies.

Lilith suddenly looks down at herself, and huffs laughter.

“Oh, of course. I’m not Lilith, Castiel.” She smiles gently at him, without a trace of mockery. “My name is Lucifer.”

Castiel opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

This is it. This is the make or break moment. He now needs to negotiate with a known terrorist, when he doesn’t even much like what he’s negotiating for. He needs to be cool, calm, and collected. Usually, that’s not a problem for him.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be wearing my English teacher, then. That might turn a guy off, you know?” It’s said coolly, though that wasn’t exactly the kind of cool Castiel was aiming for.

Lucifer/Lilith/Ms. Blake regard him with a quiet kind of self-abasement.

“Of course, Castiel,” Lucifer amends quietly. “I should have realized. My apologies.”

And then the devil turns into Dean, and that’s a picture Castiel never needed in his head.

“That’s not exactly what I had in mind,” Castiel informs him impersonally, trying to keep a level head. Seeing the devil wear Dean in front of him is more than a little bit disquieting.

 Dean’s (Lucifer’s) eyes soften, and it weirds Castiel out a bit. If anything, he expected more of a rock star persona, a fire and brimstone lightshow complete with lasers and cool smoke effects and an uncomfortable amount of leather.

And yet, the entity that’s standing in front of Castiel doesn’t emit any signs of stranger danger. If he were ten years younger and lot more moronic, Castiel probably would have gotten into his strange white van without a second thought, even with no promise of candy.

Ever since Lilith told him that Lucifer wanted to meet him, Castiel had thought of him as a creepy, distant uncle. Now that he’s here, though, it’s strange. Castiel doesn’t feel as apprehensive as he thought he would. He almost feels at ease.

Which is just as scary, really. Feeling relaxed in front of Satan is not exactly something he’s proud of.

The figure in front of him shimmers slightly at the edges, and then morphs into a body Castiel has never seen before. Sandy haired and puppy eyed, wearing a worn cotton button up and ragged, old jeans. Middle aged, maybe the body of a postman, or an airport security guard.

“Who’s that?” Castiel asks warily. Even though he feels at ease, it doesn’t mean he’s going to show it. Then again, if Lucifer is reading his mind, it doesn’t really matter either way.

Lucifer smiles again, and it’s an engaging thing. Castiel finds himself forcibly reminding his own brain that this is the enemy. Lucifer is just another politician, with a winning smile and Colgate as a sponsor. He probably likes to kiss babies on the head before he eats them, like a real stand up denizen of hell.

He holds his hands out slightly, a non-threatening gesture of greeting.

“This is my vessel,” he says simply, “The vessel I created.”

“Oh, god,” Castiel can’t help biting out, whether he’s starstruck or not, “And what, pray tell, is your vessel made out of? Sunshine and rainbows and puppies?”

Lucifer huffs a laugh, shaking his head slightly. Castiel doesn’t think he can ever picture the guy mad.

“I see you, Castiel,” Is what he says instead, which definitely doesn’t answer the question. It’s the same annoying, vague kind of bullcrap Castiel has been putting up with for the last few months, non-stop.

“I see you, too,” Castiel answers mockingly. This relaxed atmosphere has taken hold of him, allowed him to actually have a conversation like he would in reality (aka, being a dick) instead of acting as a dispenser of varying degrees of shock like he usually does when he meets angels.

“No, I _see_ you,” Lucifer says gently, and suddenly he’s in front of Castiel, prodding him in the chest with his index finger. When he touches Castiel, it’s the feeling of- as unnerving as the notion is- _connection_.

Connection. Recognition.

Nostalgia?

“It’s a pale imitation,” Lucifier acknowledges Castiel’s thoughts openly, pulling his finger away from Castiel’s chest. “But you remember me, Castiel. Sort of like how a ghost remembers life- fondly.”

“I-” Castiel begins, and is horrified to find a lump blocking his throat. The swell of emotion in his chest is painful, and it rises, unannounced and unwanted. He doesn’t _actually_ remember anything. There’s no way he could remember getting plucked from heaven like one of those toys in a claw machine, and Lucifer is the bratty kid who got lucky after begging his mom for more quarters.

“You’ll never actually get those memories back, you know,” Lucifer informs him, not unkindly, “Think of your recognition as something akin to muscle memory. Or, I suppose in this case, it’s tucked far far away, in a locked and barred section of your already locked and barred grace.”

A shadow passes over Lucifer’s face, like he’s just realized something that displeases him.

“I didn’t take you by _accident_ , Castiel,” he continues, a combination of offended and heartbreakingly genuine. He obviously just caught up to Castiel’s thought process, “As young as you were, I took you because you and I- we’re alike. We’re _brothers_.” The emphasis he puts on the last word hits Castiel harder than he expected it to. When Gabriel used the family excuse, he brushed it off. Somehow, things are murkier here, the waters muddied. Like attracts like, and loneliness is a flavor they both know well.

“That’s not what the legend says,” Castiel manages, his throat working double time to get the words out without mushing them together, “The legend says you stole me. Kidnapped me.”

Lucifer shrugs, “Every story needs a villain, and heaven doesn’t really work in shades of grey. I’m sure you’ve already figured that out. It’s a lot easier to say that I took you, rather than say that you _wanted_ to go.”

Castiel blinks.

“I didn’t want to go with you,” he says, but it’s just regurgitation. He has no idea what he wanted back then, no idea what he was, at the beginning. The way people keep talking, he doubts he’ll ever know. All he has to go on are legends and what the being standing in front of him is telling him. “I _ran_ from you. I clawed my way out of hell just to get away from you. How can you say I wanted to go?” He can recite the legend, but the worry that’s festering in a pit in his stomach is telling him that legends don’t always have a basis in fact.

Lucifer shakes his head, a school teacher who’s disappointed in Castiel, because they know he knows the answer, and refuses to see it.

“You got lost, Castiel. I lost you in the fire.”

No way. Castiel shakes his head, a mute negative forming on his lips.

Lucifer’s eyes are too kind for a fallen angel. Castiel’s eyes aren’t that kind.

“You got lost,” Lucifer insists, emotion of his own coloring his voice, “You got lost, and I wept for you, brother. You were supposed to be the angel of loneliness, and that was at the hand of a cruel, capricious god. A god who creates beings full of love, and then condemns them to lead solitary lives,” Lucifer, while the king of hell, also appears to be the king of daddy issues, “I tried to save you from that,” his eyes go liquid, pleading, “Do you know what my name means?”

Castiel wracks his brain, tries to think through the fog of emotion, but he doubts he can even remember his own name at the moment.

“Light bringer,” Lucifer says quietly. “Morning star.” He swallows thickly, runs a hand over the thick blond stubble on his cheek, “Loneliness is dark, and I wanted to light your way. I wanted to save you, but I failed, completely and utterly. Every life you’ve lived has been huddled in a corner, alone. I’m sorry for that. More sorry than you could ever know.”

Oh, this conversation is spinning wildly out of control. There’s a lot more emotions than Castiel expected, and he can’t believe he’s found himself caught up in a long-lost brother storyline, the lamest of the lame, a two-bit skeezeball lazy writer move, ripped right from the bank of clichés.

God, if he actually was the protagonist of a show, it would be cancelled embarrassingly fast. Trite storylines and one-step-forward-two-steps-backward characterization is not going to win any Emmys, and he’s too surly, anyways. Lampshading will, unfortunately, only get him so far.

Lucifer is unerringly, offputtingly genuine. Castiel should have given up his predetermined notions of anything biblical long ago, thanks to a life of half-hearted apathy towards religion, and the more recent thrust of ridiculous, angelic buggery.

And yet, somehow, after everything, this still manages to cause him pause. Of course, there’s still the chance that this is all a giant ruse, a part practiced without break in the Pit or its equivalent, and that Castiel is walking directly, face first into a trap. An apocalyptic one.

It’s not like Castiel is great at reading people. Hell, he can barely even understand his own thought process when he’s on his a-game. There’s something about Lucifer, though. Something about his _brother_ that makes him want to forget that he doesn’t understand others, that he just doesn’t possess the equipment to care.

He cares about Dean, after all. The potential for caring is there.

Aside from the fact that Lucifer seems a little (read: a lot) over dramatic, waxing pretentious and poetic at him, he seems like an okay dude. Y’know, excluding the fact that he’s the devil. Which should probably be Castiel’s next point of business, actually.

He brushes aside Lucifer’s verbose apology, (he would say blocks of text run in the celestial family, but that brings up lots of extremely awkward, borderline incest-y issues with his heavenly relation to Dean, and the last thing that needs to be introduced into this relationship is shared DNA on the Father’s side. Luckily, Dean isn’t near as wordy as him, meaning he’s probably from a different angelic tree, or something… Probably. He should actually make a note to figure that shit out as soon as he’s crossed off more pressing matters on his priorities list) waving his hand dismissively, in the curt way he’s cultivated over the years.

“You kind of run hell,” Castiel says, almost apologetically, “I feel like your big words and long sentences and frankly emotionally moving speeches are undermined by how you like to torture the souls not worthy of heaven’s most glorious paradise… or something.” It almost feels like a formality, like Lucifer has already gotten the job and the only reason they’re continuing with the interview is that someone is going to complain about company policy otherwise.

Which… is not a comforting thought. Castiel notes that this has not been a long conversation, and this is all foreplay compared to the Big Question he needs to ask, the one that will inevitably bring them one step closer to the end of this chapter, the third act, the climax of this whole ridiculous shebang.

He also remembers that his imminent death is still very much on the table, like a roasted pig at a fancy dinner party, apple in his mouth and ass in the air. This is an important note- something he would write on his hand if he had a pen and his palms didn’t sweat so much. If he dies, Dean will kill him. Simple as that. To avoid double death, he needs to avoid single death. Really, it shouldn’t be too hard. Billions of people avoid death every day, and some of those people live in places where things actively seek out other things to kill (of course, he’s talking about Australia- he’ll never understand Australia). If he’s being fair, things here in North America are currently seeking him out, but not necessarily to kill him, even though he’s sure death is an eventual option.

He really doesn’t want to die. Sucking dick is just getting fun, after all, and he’s finally developing a technique. Aside from the fact that the part of Dean that’s not his dick would be really sad if he bit it, and Castiel (assuming he has some sort of consciousness in whatever afterlife he’s handed) would also be very sad if he never got to see Dean again.

So, goal of the day (dream, whatever): don’t die, Castiel. Don’t be a fucking moron and piss off the devil and die.

It’s a noble goal, maybe even an attainable one.

Lucifer regards Castiel calmly, and Castiel suddenly realizes he’s being caught out on thinking in paragraphs again, because Lucifer can read minds, _dumbass_. Fucking text blocks. Who thinks in great walls of text, anyways? Giant idiots like Castiel, who likes to spell out every single fucking thing like he’s been handed the roll of “exposition’s bitch” in this all new episode of ‘Castiel’s Life Is a Really Bad TV Show’.

Fuck.

“Can you just… please, give me a second to myself?” he half pleads. He can’t actually feel Lucifer rooting around in his head, but he knows he’s there. Archangel sixth sense or not, he knows Lucifer is in there. In fact, he almost feels bad for the guy. His head is an awful place to be at the best of times.

Lucifer considers Castiel’s request for a moment, before nodding.

“As you wish,” he says, and takes a literal step back as well, a gesture to underline what he’s just done in the mental stratosphere.

Castiel sends a grateful glance his way, and tries to calm his thoughts. It’s more of a controlled chaos in his head at the moment, which is easier to sort through than his usual trains of thought that stop and start more often than a game of red light green light, at least. Usually, his thoughts are half baked and still raw in the middle, or so exceedingly verbose and convoluted that he feels like they’re all trying to get out at once, creating a bottleneck effect, meaning none of them can so much as trickle out.

It’s exhausting, but in here, at least, thoughts are just that- thoughts.

Thoughts such as; _Lucifer, bad, Lucifer… good? Greygreygreygreygrey (gray? Or is that a Canadian thing?) Ask the question, dumbass. Does the devil need to go to the dentist? Does he get a dental plan?_ _Do_ I _have a plan? We were supposed to discuss a plan at some point, but Sam was too busy shagging ass away from angels and Dean’s mouth was a little too occupied with other things to really discuss anything_. _Why didn’t we have a plan._

_I’m literally sitting across from Lucifer right now and kind of want to hug him, which is worrying enough, and he could totally still be reading my thoughts, which is even more worrisome. Not good._

Sometimes, thinking things through just doesn’t really work. Not with the small amount of information Castiel has to go on (even though all he ever seems to do these days is get monologued or talked at).

“Is there anyway you can, y’know, stay out of my head for good?” Castiel asks hopefully, though he’s not really expecting any kind of affirmative.

As if he’s reading his mind (ha) Lucifer shakes his head regretfully.

“It’s just a thing I have to do,” he says apologetically, like some dick middle manager is forcing him to keep this rule implemented against his will, “Office politics are so petty, aren’t they?”

“A friend once referred to heaven as a bureaucracy,” Castiel offers in return, “I suppose it would make sense that hell is the same.”

Lucifer sighs in a way that proves he’s heard that comparison before, and is about to set the poor, misguided soul who dared speak it straight.

“But they aren’t the same, are they?” Lucifer challenges, though it sounds like he’s actually leaving room for Castiel to come up with an answer on his own. “They aren’t even opposites. There aren’t any comfortable parallels to set up between the two. Heaven rewards the righteous and hell punishes the wicked, but that doesn’t make sense, does it? Hell should reward the wicked, because in hell, the wicked aren’t wicked. The system is flawed,” Lucifer states, sounding for all the world like he would’ve been in like Flynn at Woodstock. For all Castiel knows, he was.

“Hell should be heaven for sinners, right? But if that’s the case, then everyone gets rewarded, and we can’t have that. Our father’s is a system that works on only one, rigid moral standard. It’s inflexible and archaic, and frankly, needs to be done away with.”

Should he be wearing a tin foil hat? Castiel feels like he’ll understand this conversation better if he’s wearing a tin foil hat, and possibly standing outside an Arby’s.

“Can I just convert to Buddhism, please?”

Lucifer huffs a laugh, but says nothing.

“Are you suggesting a coup?” Castiel asks more seriously, realization dawning on him that Lucifer might have just asked him to throw his chips in with him and Take Down The (Actual) Man.

“I’m suggesting it’s time for a regime change,” Lucifer explains evenly, like he’s not talking about overthrowing the majesty of heaven, and by extension, god.

Castiel shakes his head.

“Okay, we’re going to have to slow down here,” he informs Lucifer, “We’re going to need to take this very slowly. First things first,” he looks at Lucifer, who’s listening politely. Castiel wonders how many people he’s dismembered already today, and since he’s currently spending his lunch hour with Castiel, if he’ll make it up to all the untortured souls later, “You need to tell me what happens to the objectively bad people- the murderers without cause, the rapists, the pedophiles- and if you so much as possibly, maybe, a teeny tiny little itty bitty _bit_ hint that they deserve something other than the worst kind of punishment, then this conversation is going to be over extremely fast, and I will walk out of this dream extremely dramatically.”

Lucifer nods, his expression rapt. He took in every word Castiel said, took the strings of words Castiel had formed, and actually extracted meaning from them. Like people do in real conversations. So far, so good.

“I think you misunderstand me,” Lucifer says plainly, “Or I mislead you, I’m not sure which. I apologize. You need to remember that I am an angel, Castiel. I don’t seek out evil for evil’s sake. I’m not an evil entity, and I am not malevolent. I don’t feel _glee_ when I’m cutting a limb off a rapist in hell, but _justice_. A mother who killed a man who was trying to hurt her children? Not our department. The truly wicked- the _objectively_ wicked- are seen to appropriately, rest assured. But that’s not who I’m fighting for, Castiel. I’m fighting for you, for me, and for anyone who’s ever had to make a difficult choice. I’m fighting for the grey area that we all live in.”

“Well then what the hell was all that talk about a regime change? If everyone gets their just desserts, then why upset the status quo?”

“ _Grey area_ , Castiel,” Lucifer emphasises. “Angels, for the most part, are black and white creatures. Good is good and bad is bad. God is not the ultimate right, and heaven is not the ultimate good,” he says contemplatively, “And it’s time someone reminded them of that.”

“Okay,” Castiel allows, “Then I assume the other side of the coin is that the devil is not the ultimate wrong, and hell is not the ultimate evil?”

Lucifer smiles.

“Ah, brother,” he leans forward a bit, as if about to impart some great wisdom upon Castiel, “You’re a very circular thinker, you know that? To you, everything must come around again, everything must connect, be it fingers slotting together or pieces fitting just right. _Or_ , everything must be juxtaposed, opposite. There is no in between for you,” he smirks slightly, “no grey area.”

Castiel wants to object to that, but every single thought he’s ever had is backing up Lucifer’s summation.

“I’m only human,” he jokes weakly, a bad deflection.

“You’re exactly what you were made to be,” Lucifer says, sadly. Obviously he hasn’t picked up on the etiquette of responding to Castiel’s jokes quite yet- that is, you either laugh at them, or ignore them. You certainly don’t make them more depressing than they already are. “Destiny is a curse that follows us all, and I’m going to show you how to lift it.”

“Like you so heroically did?” Castiel asks skeptically, raising a brow.

Lucifer shrugs, modest but unafraid of the truth.

“I rebelled,” he says, voice even, “When I wasn’t supposed to,” he taps his index finger against his denim clad thigh methodically, like a silent metronome. He’s comfortable in his skin. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re trying to do the same thing.”

“We’re trying to do the same thing,” Castiel clarifies, “But not for the same reasons.”

Lucifer quirks an eyebrow, interested.

“Mind clarifying for me?” He asks, even though Castiel would describe what he just said as clarification.

It’s only when Castiel starts to try and explain that he realizes he can’t.

“We’re doing it because we have to,” is what he finally comes up with.

Lucifer threads his fingers together and rests his chin on his makeshift surface, gazing at Castiel like an endlessly patient therapist would look at their charge.

“Is someone holding a gun to your head?” he asks softly, “Physically forcing you to do the things you do?”

Instead of answering, all Castiel comes back with is, “I feel like I’m being manipulated.”

Lucifer unlinks his fingers and spreads his hands out to his sides, in an aborted attempt at an innocent shrug.

“We’re just talking, Castiel.”

“About overthrowing heaven, yeah. No biggie.”

Lucifer eyes him, speculatively.

“You have a specific question for me, Castiel. It’s been rattling around in your head this entire time. Ask it.”

“Are you going to say yes?” Castiel asks, and then tacks on hastily, “That wasn’t the Big Question.”

“I know. And you’ll need to ask to find out,” Lucifer informs him, annoyingly mysterious.

“Are you being this cryptic on purpose?” Castiel asks, not caring about the bite to his tone. If Lucifer wanted to dismember him, or whatever his preferred flavor of torture is, he would have done it long ago. Now they’re just talking.

“Grey area,” Lucifer reminds him encouragingly. “Ask.”

Castiel rolls his eyes at all the hoop-jumping, but sucks it up regardless.

“About the apocalypse; can you just, y’know, _not_?”

Okay, there were definitely more eloquent ways Castiel could have gone about that. He’s about to amend his statement into something acceptable, when Lucifer silences him with a wave of his hand.

“Yes,” he says simply.

Castiel chokes on the words he was about to say.

“ _Yes_?” he repeats, dumbly, and for emphasis.

Lucifer nods.

There’s a dumbfounded silence, in which Castiel sits in shock and Lucifer just sits. Half hysterical, Castiel almost wishes he had one of those big red Staples ‘that was easy’ buttons.

Hey, a red button is a red button, and he’d much rather push that one than the one that starts the apocalypse.

Castiel swallows.

“Um… Thanks,” he says, awkwardly.

One side of Lucifer’s mouth quirks up.

“I’m not bound to our Father’s plan like you still continue to be, Castiel. I don’t have to do anything, no matter where it’s written, or by whom. There will be no apocalypse. Not by _my_ hand, anyway.”

That last sentence is strangely ominous, but Castiel doesn’t have time to dwell on it. Now that his question is answered, he can feel his consciousness tugging at him, pulling him out of his sleep.

“We’ll meet again, and soon, Castiel.” Lucifer tells him, “In the flesh, this time.” He stands up, their interview over, and walks out of the front door of the waiting room.

***

Castiel wakes up silently, and much more comfortable than he expected, waking up from a dream like that. Dean is sleeping beside him, eyes hidden behind the crook of his elbow, oblivious. Early morning light is pooling at the foot of their bed, and Castiel is warm, and surprisingly content.

Weeks of nerves, of nail biting and waiting and declarations, and Lucifer turned out to be a pretty chill guy.

Who knew?

There’s a weight off his chest for sure, as uncertain as their future still is. The weight only half comes back when he glances at Dean again, and realizes how pissed Dean is going to be about it. Making a deal with the devil; Castiel just did the thing the saying specifically said not to do, and with the story they’re starring in, he won’t be surprised if it somehow comes back and bites him in the ass.

But for the moment, he’s alright. For the moment, the fate of the world is out of his hands (and placed in the devil’s, but that’s just semantics.) He’s light, and he leans over and presses a kiss to Dean’s elbow, still covering half his face.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, apologizing for the fight they’re going to be having very soon.

It’s meant as a quiet reassurance for himself, something that only he was supposed to hear, like when people mumble things under their breath on television that only the audience can hear.

Unfortunately, Castiel keeps forgetting that his life isn’t actually a tv show, and Dean blinks blearily, waking up, before focusing sleep fogged eyes on Castiel.

“Sorry for what?” he asks, groggy.

 Castiel sighs internally. So much for the tranquility of the morning. If his life really were a tv show, then they could have a scene transition, and just skip over the fight. The constant bickering between him and Dean is getting old, anyhow.

“Lucifer came for a visit,” Castiel says.

Cue scene transition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is spinning wildly out of control, and for that, I apologize. Apparently, I need to learn to stop thinking in big blocks of text as well.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was always a story about a fish named Fish.
> 
> Also, unfortunately for Castiel, while most people’s brains turn off when their bodies are turned on, his brain seems to work in double time.

“You know what _I_ dream about, Cas?” Dean’s hair, while short, is messier than Castiel’s ever seen it, and that includes after sex, since Dean’s run his hands through it approximately a million times since this fight has started. His eyes are wild and panicked, his movements frighteningly staccato. Castiel suspects he’s going to start ricocheting off the walls soon, like a ping pong ball gone rogue.

“No, Dean,” Castiel sighs, resigned to letting Dean get it out of his system, “Pray tell, what do you dream about?”

“ _Not the devil_ ,” Dean retorts.

“Oh, well, I’ll just push the button that changes all my dreams into me showing up to school with no pants on, then,” Castiel answers, glad for the return to passive aggressive form. He’s not going to get angry for this fight- he refuses to. He’s come to terms with Dean’s particular brand of worry, and understands where the worry is stemming from, so he’s trying to accept it with as much grace as possible (which, admittedly, isn’t much, but he’s an archangel, not a god).

“I just—shit, Cas. _Shit_.” Dean scrubs at his jaw, practically clawing at it. “We fucking left you there on your own, man. No plan, no emergency exits, no nothing. We spent so much time just dicking around and arguing when we could have been figuring out a script, figuring out tactics and maneuvers. _Fuck_.”

 Castiel shrugs.

“It’s over and done with, for now,” he says, attempting to console, but the words are too ominous to really do anything other than pick at the already raw wound, “I’m not dead, and Lucifer’s actually kind of a chill guy.”

Dean makes a weird noise, something like how Castiel imagines a bullfrog would sound if someone stuck a pin in it mid-ribbit.

“Yeah, Cas, that’s something else we need to talk about. The fact that you describe Lucifer as ‘kind of a chill guy’ really doesn’t fly with me. Sorry, man, but he’s the fucking devil.”

“And god’s the fucking god,” Castiel says levelly, “Look at all the good he’s done for us lately.”

Dean visibly bites his tongue for a moment.

“I know,” he finally says, “I know god sucks. Well, actually, I don’t know, because I don’t even know if he exists.” He shakes his head disbelievingly, “A crappy god is one thing. A nice devil, though? That’s where I draw the line.”

Castiel sighs deeply, and stares up at the ceiling, as if it holds all the answers. All he sees is a disturbing stain and possibly a condom. He silently figures that whatever forces got that condom to stick to the ceiling are probably much more malevolent and sick than he could ever fathom, and maybe there _are_ things worse than the devil. Regardless, he makes sure to shift far out of splattering range, should it decide to detach itself at any time during this conversation.

Castiel doesn’t think Dean realizes this, but Lucifer hadn’t mentioned him or Sam- or anyone else, for that matter- once in their conversation. This fight- or alliance, or uneasy allies, or frenemies business, whatever- with Lucifer seems to be Castiel’s torch to bear on his own.

It’s weird, because Castiel’s never known familial obligation before, but he thinks his rebel archangel brother who runs hell may have finally kicked his butt into the ‘family’ gear. He feels… _responsible_ , for Lucifer, in a way he’s never felt responsible for anything or anybody before. The closest feeling he can reconcile with what’s currently churning in his gut is how he felt when he was a kid and had a goldfish named Fish. Fish was great, because he (or she, Castiel never actually knew, and didn’t particularly care) was quiet. Company was often a hard thing for Castiel to deal with, and Fish was company in a way fellow kids never were, because Fish didn’t try and make him be the seeker ever time for hide and seek. Granted, the one time Castiel tried to play hide and seek with Fish, Fish was confined to his bowl, and therefore left Castiel hiding under his bed for at least an hour and with a wholly undeserved sense of accomplishment. Which, of course, led Castiel to the conclusion that Fish would be able to play hide and seek better if he were in a larger, wetter environment.

Castiel took Fish to the public pool one day, and unfortunately for Fish, that was where he (or she) met his (or her) tragic demise. Castiel unleashed Fish on the unsuspecting public, who didn’t actually take too kindly to having a goldfish swim up their bathing suits. The ensuing stampede of swimmers evacuating the pool was funny enough, but the very not-funny part of the stampede was how all the waves made by the people pushed poor Fish in the direction of the filter, and that was that. Castiel couldn’t look at fish sticks for weeks afterward. (To be fair, he’d never actually liked fish sticks, and the filter incident had only cemented his dislike.)

The moral of the story, of course, is non-existent. Had Fish never been pushed into the filter, he (or she) would probably have died from the chlorine intake, anyways, and Castiel doubts he would have had the balls to resuscitate a goldfish. (With his life’s general luck, though, he figures his immediate attempts at reviving Fish would have been pathetic at best, and in his panicked state, he would have blown too much air into Fish, turning him into some kind of macabre, scaly balloon that would definitely get him sent to a child psychologist.)

Then again, Fish was a fish, and probably didn’t have lungs, anyways.

Replace Fish with Lucifer, and the public pool with the world, and you have a situation that makes no sense, except for the fact that whatever happens when the two are mixed will most likely be Castiel’s fault.

“I understand your reservations,” Castiel says, and he means it. A shady figure who shows up halfway through a story with murky motivations and kind eyes is not someone to take lightly, because they are probably evil, “And I share them whole heartedly.”

The thing is, Dean knows family way better than Castiel ever will. Dean _feels_ family in a way Castiel never will. In fact, Dean’s taught Castiel what family means. Though, Dean probably never expected that to backfire on him in such a spectacular way when Castiel decided to up and have platonic brotherly angelic celestial feelings for Lucifer.

Castiel is starting to learn that maybe he doesn’t do things halfway, after all. He either does nothing, or he goes balls to the wall all out. That might work for some people, but when you live a life where “all out” is the equivalent to the world blowing up, then maybe he should learn about boundaries.

But then he’s looking at Dean, who he loves (quite a fucking lot, actually), and thinks that he couldn’t do _that_ halfway. He tried for a long time, but all that tension, all the emotion (and blue balls) festered, and became ugly. When the dam finally broke, it was both horrifying and liberating at the same time. There was a drought in Castopia, and then torrential rain, massive floods sweeping through the province. An awakening, a cleansing, whatever the new age wannabes want to call it, but he loves Dean with a clarity that hurts, a clarity that cuts, sharp.

And maybe it’s fate talking, because that damn prophecy business sits in the back of his mind like a douche at the movie theatre who occasionally shouts obnoxious and obvious things, while throwing popcorn and skittles to underline his moronic statements.

But it could also just be _Castiel_ talking.

Or it could be both, or it could be neither. (Although neither doesn’t really make any sense, Castiel refuses to rule it out, because he’ll be fucked if any of this business has made much sense so far.)

“Well then what the hell are we doing, man?” Dean half asks, half pleads. “Making a deal with Lucifer is not only monumentally stupid, but _monumentally stupid_.”

“Dean you can stop repeating yourself for emphasis, and also feel free to stop speaking in theoretical italics. I get that the situation is serious.”

“Christ, I let you watch way too much tv,” Dean grumbles, offhand.

“Our lives feel more like a tv show than anything else at the moment,” Castiel points out, rather reasonably, he thinks.

“Yeah?” Dean challenges, “It’s always easy on tv. You know no one can actually solve a crime in forty five minutes, right? You have to wait days for DNA tests to come back, not minutes. There are no montages. Everyone wears sweat pants in high school, and teenagers have fucking acne and b.o. and get awkward boners in gym class. It takes a lot longer than a day to drive across the country, and having sex in the backseat of a car isn’t actually all it’s cracked up to be.

“Life isn’t easy, Cas. Not at fucking all.”

“Star crossed lovers is a very popular trope on television,” Castiel says pointedly.

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean says, and kisses him.

“I managed to pass the acne stage relatively quickly,” Castiel continues once Dean pulls away, “and you’ve never told me I smell bad. The only time I’ve ever seen you with an erection is when we’re about to fornicate, and when you were an angel, you could travel in time, let alone across the country, in less than a moment.”

Dean is staring a Castiel, slightly slack jawed.

“When the fuck did you become the optimistic one in this relationship?” He asks, bewildered.

“Relationships are a two way street, Dean. You would do well to remember that,” Castiel says wryly, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Fucking--” Dean grabs Cas’ wrist and tugs him forward, bumps their foreheads together gently. “You’re a fucking dipstick, you know that?”

Castiel shrugs as non chalantly as he can, while his and Dean’s personal bubbles are close enough to be considered lovingly fucking.

“Okay,” he allows, easy.

Dean smiles- Castiel can feel it in the air between them, but it’s a faltering, fleeting thing. Castiel is reminded of a busted street lamp at three in the morning, sputtering its last, sparks flying into the air adjacent.

“We’re going to have to talk about this,” Dean says, more seriously. “ _Really_ talk. No more getting caught with our pants around our ankles.”

“Speaking of pants around ankles…” Castiel says playfully, trying to lighten the mood. He skirts a hand underneath Dean’s shirt, fingertips feather light on Dean’s sides. Dean shudders minutely, and Castiel sees the small frown between his brows first deepen, and then smooth out.

“God, that was a bad line,” he huffs against Castiel’s mouth, hands on Castiel’s waist.

“Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?” Castiel says quietly, teasingly, trailing the blunt end of his thumbs across the lower planes of Dean’s stomach, stopping just shy of the trail leading from the bottom of his belly button to the coarse hair between his legs, and subsequently, his cock. Really, it’s called a treasure trail for a reason.

“Asshole,” Dean mutters, and presses his lips to Castiel’s neck. He threads his hands into Castiel’s hair, and for a moment, they’re in a strange position, like Dean’s cheek is pressed to Castiel’s bosom. (Does Castiel even have a bosom? He’ll have to check later, and then come back and edit his inner commentary accordingly.) Slightly confused, Castiel kisses the crown of Dean’s head, and it turns into a much sweeter, much more reverent moment than he expects.

Gently, Castiel leads Dean to one of the beds in the room, sits him down on the edge.

“Lay down,” he instructs, and even if Dean eyes him warily, he follows the instruction nonetheless.

Castiel, to his credit, has taken to sex quite well. He’s learned Dean, knows how to take him apart and put him back together again. He’s aware that the backs of Dean’s knees are sensitive, knows that Dean would never get dressed again if they could somehow do it forever, lined up from their toes to their respective hairlines. Castiel loves sex, loves the payoff, loves that all the action he’s seen recently means he can walk up a flight of stairs without getting slightly winded.

But Dean is a whole other story. Dean _thrives_ on sex, just as much of a hedonist as Castiel accused him of being all those months ago. Dean speaks in actions, and sex is nothing if not a series of (very pleasurable) actions. Eyes clearer than glass, vocal chords too busy muttering his name and making a series of breathy, choked off gasps, sex may not have been Dean’s first language, but it’s the one he’s most fluent in. He kisses like a drowning man breathing air for the first time, touches like if he lets go, he’ll fall away, back into the abyss. It’s not needy, but the raw, pulsing core of Dean Winchester.

Castiel climbs onto the bed, one knee on either side of Dean’s waist, straddling him. He puts one hand on either side of Dean’s face, leans down so that their mouths are inches apart. Dean’s staring at him, wide eyed, so damn earthy and grounded, that it baffles Castiel. Castiel is fairly certain that Dean is the most solid, _present_ person he’s ever met, whereas Castiel more closely resembles a hastily tethered balloon, ready to drift away on the slightest breeze, insubstantial.

But Dean tugs him down every time, tethers him. Reminds him that he has working arms and legs, and even the presence of mind to hold himself down, if he so chooses. Dean reminds him that he’s a _person_ , sometimes, and Castiel really can’t ask for more than that. You can’t do another person a bigger favor than reminding them that they are, indeed, a functional being with conscious thought.  

“Hello,” Castiel rasps, searching Dean’s face. There’s worry hidden in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, doubt etched into the set of his mouth. But there’s joy, too, in the breath the two of them share. A solidarity, unlike where it’s born out of obligation to Lucifer, this one forged through choice.

 _Choice_. As in, Castiel, functional being, possessor of conscious thought, _chooses_ to be in this moment. He _chooses_ to be rutting against Dean, both of them still clothed beneath way too many layers. He _chooses_ to slot his mouth against Dean’s, _chooses_ to thread their fingers together on the scratchy motel bed sheets. _Chooses_ to be dumb and try to undo the top button of Dean’s plaid shirt with his teeth, only to pull too hard, and accidentally swallow the button he’s just ripped off.

Such is the nature of choice.

Dean laughs, and Castiel hacks, and eventually, the button is dealt with and thrown somewhere in the vicinity of the trash can, where it makes a cute little _ping_.

 “Death by button,” Castiel bemoans, in between nipping at Dean’s jaw, “How embarrassing.”

“I once saw a guy die of a heart attack on the john,” Dean says, breath hitching as Castiel works his way towards Dean’s earlobe, teasing presses of tongue along the way, “I was embarrassed for the poor bastard.”

“Mmm,” Castiel assents, hands roaming Dean’s torso freely, doing their best to undo the rest of the buttons, mouth free, “I once heard someone say something about how you should always read a good book in the bathroom, so you’ll look good if you die in the middle of it.”

“I better get rid of those Playboys, then,” Dean sighs, his hands fluttering for a moment before grabbing fistfuls of Castiel’s shirt, sucking in too much air as Castiel flicks his tongue out, nibbling Dean’s earlobe. Dean lets loose a groan, low, and Castiel grins a shit eating grin.

“Shut up,” Dean says, but can barely get the words out. He breathes out heavily, mouth in an “o” formation, as Castiel sucks at the bolt of Dean’s jaw. Peripherally, Castiel can feel Dean’s pulse hammering, a constant thumping, a basketball being dribbled in an empty gymnasium.

Castiel works his way down, biting and licking his way towards Dean’s clavicle, while Dean does his best impression of choking on air.

“Breathe, Dean,” Castiel chides, as he manages to get Dean’s plaid off. Now there’s only Dean’s t-shirt left to dispose of, and they’re golden.

Castiel doesn’t know if it’s par for the course for archangels (archangels with lost angel mojo, no less) but he’s infuriatingly, unerringly calm during sex. Composed. Dean comes apart at the seams, whereas Castiel remains as stoic as ever. However, Castiel figures if they both became a quivering, trembling mess during sex, then it would probably be annoyingly difficult to get somebody’s dick into somebody else’s butt.

Besides, without getting all poetic about it, Castiel thinks he’s kind of glad that there’s at least one time that he can keep Dean tethered. (Though literal tethering also offers its own perks, and Castiel definitely needs to remember to bring that up at some point…)

“I don’t need to breathe, idiot,” Dean answers testily, and in response, Castiel rasps his tongue over Dean’s right nipple through his shirt. It’s kind of nasty, and Castiel has to take a moment to turn away and scrub the cotton off his tongue, but in the end it’s worth it, because it both annoys and flusters Dean in equal measure, and that’s kind of his new goal in life- to both aggravate and work Dean up so much that he starts having a Pavlov-esque reaction every time Castiel is a dick, leaving Dean in a constant state of annoyed arousal, and Castiel in a constant state of smugness.

“Cas, I think you need to touch my dick now,” Dean informs him, voice well on its way to shattering.

Castiel glances down at the obvious tent in Dean’s jeans, and smirks. He doesn’t say anything, just presses the flat of his palm against Dean’s crotch, swallows heavily when Dean lets out a sound that reminds him he has his own tent down south to deal with as well.

It’s all a put on, really. Not Dean’s physical reaction, of course, but the huffiness. Castiel knows Dean eats foreplay up like Thanksgiving dinner, knows what touch does to him. There is no urgency to finish, but there is urgency in the way Dean clenches his hands against the bedspread, in the way Dean’s eyelids flutter every time Castiel does something just _right_ , in the way Castiel can almost hear the blood rushing under his skin, the jolts of heat that skitter up and down his spine with every press of fingers and every stroke of tongue. Castiel takes him apart deftly, kisses down his soft stomach, hands hooked under Dean’s knees and rubbing up and down his thighs, the scrape of denim on his palms reminding him that they still have a lot of undressing to do.

Even though Castiel has him sort of pinned to the bed, Dean manages to shuck his t-shirt off by himself, and a whole new canvas is his to explore. Castiel places his hands, unconsciously reverent, on the curve of Dean’s bare hips. The thing about Dean, the thing that makes Castiel blink rapidly because he still can’t believe this is _him_ , this is _them_ , is how ridiculously _soft_ Dean is. Of course, as a powered up angel, Dean’s vessel could look however he wanted, and he’d still be able to throw a sumo wrestler across the room. But Dean is a strange combination of sinewy and soft, cords of muscle and gentle slopes of flesh all at once. Contradictions again.

His face is young, but his eyes are old. They’ve seen a lot, and probably done a lot. Castiel can imagine, if he ever learned what he was like before this reincarnation, that his eyes would look similar. He did crawl- lost or not- out of hell. That’s got to weigh on a depowered archangel’s deepest subconscious, at least a little. But the idea of him being old, really old, is such a disconnect for him, that he really can’t bother with it at all. As far as he’s concerned, Cassiel was a different being entirely. Certainly not a being who went to a crappy high school and lived in a crappy suburb and lived a crappy life. Those experiences (crappy as they were) are all Castiel’s own, and someone with a name close to his isn’t allowed to have them. They are _his_ , and they belong to him.

Castiel never thought he would be possessive of the very building blocks of his life (again, building blocks made of crap, but _his_ crap nevertheless) but, as he’s learned lately, “never” in his life generally only refers to the period of time before Dean showed up, followed by a procession of angels, devils, magic school bus rides, and inaccurate bible quotations.

But, more important than all that, is the angel/human/half angel half human lying under him, chest heaving with unneeded breath, and a still furiously unattended bare torso to see to.

“You’re beautiful,” Castiel blurts before he has a chance to censor himself, and hand to god, he actually slaps a palm over his mouth as soon as he’s said it. He loves Dean, sure. But that little dribble of drool masquerading itself as a compliment was supposed to stay snug far away in his saliva glands, like any self-respecting drool should. And him without a cloth to wipe it up, no less. How embarrassing.

Dean seems to follow his train of thought, as his eyes immediately go shifty and off to the side, his face a blackly hilarious combination of constipation and vast discomfort. Castiel almost feels the awkwardness crawl between them, a horribly oppressing thing that threatens rapidly softening dicks and possible emotional discussions if left to fester.

Suddenly panicked, Castiel decides to just push through the awkwardness. It can’t be a worse idea than actually addressing what he just said, because he’s fairly sure there’s never been a more horrible idea in the history of the world. Besides, you can’t address something that doesn’t have an address, and Castiel prides himself on the nomadic life he’s chosen for himself, if only at desperate times like this as an escape/fire route double team.

Dean is staring at him, possibly confused, possibly upset, possibly flattered, and possibly a whole lot of other things. Castiel is too busy employing his tongue for damage control that he really can’t take the time to catalogue another one of Dean’s nano-expressions (Dean has an alarming amount of tiny nuances in his face, actually, with whole sub categories devoted to topics like “Sam”, “pie”, and “there’s a fine line between a blow job and chewing, Cas, and hint; that’s not food in your mouth”).

It’s not that Castiel doesn’t _mean_ it. It’s just that… he… doesn’t… want to say it. Ever. And, okay, alright, even he can admit that’s pretty shitty reasoning. Less of a justification and more of a “because words like that scare me” kind of thing. If he were Superman, his kryptonite would be saying things. Unfortunately for him, the act of saying things is actually a lot more common than kryptonite, meaning he’s basically out of luck, unless he decides that cutting out his tongue is a viable option.

Actually, scratch that. His kryptonite isn’t saying things. In fact, he never stops saying things, never shuts the fuck up. It’s just saying _important_ things that he sucks at.

So maybe with all the sucking going on right now (dick related and otherwise) he should just shut the fuck up and suck it the fuck up, because he said a thing and one of the great tragedies of the human and fallen angels race is that they can’t go back in time, meaning he can’t take back the thing.

Okay. Fine. _Fine_.

“You’re really, actually beautiful,” Castiel says this time, a much more awkward turn of phrase, and therefore, much more his speed. It doesn’t trip off the tongue as awfully as he’d thought, and the quiet kind of humility- confusion still evident in his eyes as well, because it’s not like Castiel walks around dropping compliments like rain drops in Seattle- that Dean directs his way, once he finally manages to meet Castiel’s gaze again, is nothing if not really fucking endearing.

And, well. Kind of beautiful.

Fuck.

Whatever. He’s made his bed, and now he has to lay in it (and preferably, have sex in it).

“And you’re such a fucking idiot,” Dean informs him fondly, though Castiel can hear the pride color his words. Dean runs a hand through his hair, and it’s a sweet gesture, something that makes Castiel’s chest constrict.

“That I am,” Castiel agrees. “Completely and utterly.”

Dean smiles, and grabs Castiel by the shoulders, pulling him up towards him. He kisses Castiel, warm and open. Castiel responds enthusiastically, once again sending his favorite tongue back into battle. Dean has a hand on his cheek, and then he suddenly has both hands grasping the bottom of Castiel’s t-shirt, and yanking it over his head, practically taking Castiel’s face with it.

“God, finally,” he grumbles, smile belying his tone. He presses his mouth to Castiel’s neck, breath coming quick and hot against his already overheated skin. His hands roam Castiel’s torso, finally settling with one hand curled around his hip, thumb stroking the jut of bone there, and one hand on his lower back, just above the curve of Castiel’s ass.

They’re both kneeling on the bed now- not exactly the most comfortable position, but then again, they’re lined up from the knees up, meaning there’s also a lot _more_ than comfortable friction happening right now. Their hips are slotted together, rolling as one, and there’s a delicious puddle of heat pooling in Castiel’s gut, burning him in the loveliest way possible. There’s the dry rasp of their torsos, and the wet slide of their lips, and the creaking of the bed springs, and there’s not much better than that.

Dean’s hand against Castiel’s back fists, and Castiel can feel the tension in his forearm. He pulls away, concerned. It probably doesn’t convey the amount of concern he actually feels, since he can feel his hair standing on end, feel the marks and spit still covering his upper body. It ruins his credibility, somewhat, but it doesn’t change that fact that he actually is, suddenly, achingly concerned.

“What?” he asks, going for casual, coming off clipped.

Dean’s eyes are shifty again, but not the same kind of shifty they just were. This time, the shiftiness is all Dean, from something he’s obviously having trouble voicing if his white knuckles are anything to go by.

“What?” Castiel asks again, flat. He really needs to work on correlating his tone with his actual emotions. Sometimes he feels like an out of synch video, the audio a half second ahead of the visual. It’s maddening.

Dean chews on his kiss bitten bottom lip for a moment, looking way too debauched for Castiel to currently be as far away as he is. He moved in again, pulls one of Dean’s hands into his, tries to soften his expression. Dean stares at their clasped hands, and then puts his other hand on top of that. Castiel wonders if it’s some sort of symbolic gesture.

“I know you have this… _thing_.” Dean starts, hesitantly. He trails his fingertips across the back of Castiel’s palm, light. “This thing about being close.” He raises his eyes to Castiel’s, gaging a reaction. Castiel, extremely unaware of what’s happening, hears a rushing in his ears, but is fairly certain his face remains carefully neutral. “But you also have this other _thing_ , as well,” Dean takes back the hand he’d placed on top of Castiel’s, flaps it around as if to accentuate a point. It’s an empty gesture, but Castiel understands not being able to find the words, as full of them as he usually is. “About being in control.”

Weren’t they just having sex? Why aren’t they having sex anymore? Sex is easy, talk is hard, and orgasms are nice, after all.

Castiel swallows hard.

“I’m aware of the thing,” he says, quietly. When he tries to pull his hand away, Dean holds fast, his eyes intent on Castiel’s.

“Cas, I just-” Dean licks his lips, brows creased like it’s taking him just as much to hold on as it is for Castiel not to let go, “I want you to be safe.” He laughs, blackly. “I mean, I know you’re not exactly _safe_ , ever, since there’s an apocalypse and all, but it doesn’t change the fact. I want you to be okay, and I want you to let me keep you safe,” his eyes are pleading, begging for Castiel to clue in, “I want you to feel safe with me, Cas. Castiel.”

Castiel probably would have relented anyways, but somehow, Dean using his full name, Dean saying his name correctly, still, after all this time- Castiel relents even more, if that’s possible. He forgets, sometimes (a lot) that one of the biggest reasons he’s in this mess in the first place is because Dean was and always will be the only one who can say his name correctly. It could be prophecy bullshit, could be Dean bullshit, could just be bullshit and wishful thinking. Doesn’t change the rightness that fills Castiel every time Dean says his name. Doesn’t change the little jump of his nerve endings when Dean whispers his name like it’s a revered secret, to be treasured and watched over.

He nods, and Dean’s face lights up like the first time the Christmas lights are turned on at the beginning of December. Everything else kind of fades off to the side, and Castiel is left staring at Dean, part sun, part Colgate advertisement, and it’s basically the equivalent of a shaft of light opening in the clouds, angelic choirs singing, and maybe a rainbow. There’s a lot of other great metaphors that Castiel’s about to add to his inner “list of Dean”, but then Dean is sliding off the bed and stands at the foot of it, and suddenly he’s turning Castiel around and gently pushing him onto the bed, a mirror of the position Dean was in just minutes ago.

Oh. _Oh_.

Dean is asking Castiel to give up control. Dean is asking Castiel to do something scary, and Castiel is going to let him.

Castiel is going to let Dean keep him safe.

Dean is good. Dean is kind, and he kisses Castiel on the lips. Dean is going to set the pace this time. He kisses Castiel slow, languid, and the bed isn’t great quality, but it’s definitely a change up from the open air on his back, and it’s nice on his skin. It’s weird, not having to brace himself above Dean, not having to feel the muscles in his shoulders working to hold himself up. Lying back, he can look at the way Dean blots out the crappy, spitting motel light bulb. He watches the skin and tendons move beneath Dean’s skin, watches the way Dean’s arms form barriers around him, closing him in.

Usually, he would find the notion suffocating. Right now, though, he feels safe, which is kind of the whole point.

It hits him, lying on his back as Dean addresses every bit of bare skin he can find, that somewhere along the line, Castiel started noticing things about _Dean_ during sex. For a while, all he could ever catalogue were his own emotions and physical sensations. But now, it’s about Dean. Dean being happy, Dean being pleased, are all things that make Castiel pleased. It makes Castiel happy to see Dean happy. Following that line of logic, Castiel figures it makes Dean feel safe if Castiel feels safe.

Is that codependency or just how relationships work? He’s not sure. But he also remembers the pre-school motto, sharing is caring, and if they’re sharing each other with each other, that can only be good, right? Pre-school wouldn’t lie to him. (He never actually went to pre-school, but that’s beside the point.)

From this angle, things look different. Not better or worse, necessarily, just different.

Castiel is aware that things can go both ways, but it’s been kind of an unspoken agreement between them that it’s always _his_ turn. Obviously they both have the parts for the job, but it just never happened that way. If he’s being honest, it’s always kind of freaked Castiel out, the idea of being _breached_. Dean would always coax him through it, though, assure him everything was okay, everything was good, _he_ was okay.

The thing is, Castiel trusts Dean. More than he’s ever trusted anybody in his life.

This is about a lot of things, really. It’s about Dean’s trust in Castiel, and Castiel’s trust in Dean. It’s about Castiel learning that control isn’t a locket to be worn around his neck, but friendship bracelets, meant to be equally distributed between two people (and okay, when did Castiel go back to middle school- he gets a sudden, horrifying image of condoms engraved with “best friends forever,” and internally shudders). It’s about trust shared between two people- or angelic beings, whatever- and it’s about Castiel realizing that he’s actually at a point in time where he feels like this is something he can willingly give, not only because Dean wants it, but because he wants it, too.

It’s also about Dean getting a chance to stick his dick in Castiel’s butt, but Castiel would never ruin such a serious train of thought with crude language like that.

Dean is in the middle of doing something lovely with his tongue on Castiel’s stomach, when he suddenly looks up, worry spiking in his eyes.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” he asks quietly, cheeks flushed and sweat gleaming on his skin like he came out of the box like that (“your own Dean Winchester, now with built in sex sweat! He gleams!”).

Castiel nods fervently, urgently. He gestures vaguely in the direction of his lower body.

“I think you’ll find I’m quite… ready.” He says, as smoothly as possible.

“Wasn’t talking about that,” Dean mumbles, pressing another kiss to Castiel’s overheated skin, brushing his lips along the surface gently. He runs his palms down Castiel’s sides, fingertips trickling like water in a decorative garden fountain, touch light and fleeting.

“Dean,” Castiel says, and Dean says, “ _Castiel_ ,” because there’s no arguing with him, not on this.

“You know I would kick you in the face if I wasn’t ready,” is Castiel’s bullshit answer, and Dean rolls his eyes, just like Castiel knew he would, and Dean accepts that that’s how Castiel says yes, just like Castiel knew he would.

“Just tell me if you want me to stop,” Dean says sincerely, bending to kiss the inside of Castiel’s thigh. Belatedly, Castiel realizes they both still have their pants on, and that needs to change very soon, because he’s fond of these pants, and his dick is going to stretch them out of shape if he doesn’t get them off soon.

“I want you to stop talking,” Castiel orders, even though he kind of wants Dean to keep talking, feels like Dean is definitely going to have to talk him through this, “and take off my pants.”

Framed by the v of his splayed thighs, Dean shoots him a quick salute.

“Aye aye, captain.”

With a deftness only learned through practise, Dean pops the button on Castiel’s jeans with a flick of his wrist, and the descent of his zipper almost makes him cry out with relief. In the middle of the grappling for control, he completely forgot what it feels like to not have a dick that feels like the contents of a vacuum packed sandwich.

“Shit,” he breathes out as he hears the telltale sound of denim hitting the wall. Moments later, a second pair of jeans follows, and they’re both, blessedly, almost naked. Just the boxers, and then nothing but skin, glorious skin.

“Hips up,” Dean instructs, and Castiel immediately lifts himself off the bed, and watches as Dean slides the last barrier between the two of them down his thighs. Within seconds, Dean’s own pair is gone as well, and he hovers over Castiel again, nervous tension emanating from him like a Starbuck’s wifi signal.

Their eyes meet, and Castiel nods, thinks, _I’m safe_ , and Dean surges forward and kisses him hard, teeth clacking in the pandemonium of the moment. Dean has a hand on Castiel’s face, cupping his cheek, and his palm is warm.

“I fucking love you so much, you know?” he says against Castiel’s mouth, breath hot on his lips.

“Likewise,” Castiel says, before he realizes that’s a shithead answer, and amends, “Love you, too,”.

Dean chuckles into their next kiss, shaking his head the entire time.

“You’re so fucking _you_ , Cas. Did you know that?” He asks, rolling his hips against Castiel, slotting their erections together, and in between Dean’s question and Castiel’s answer, their breath hitches in tandem.

“I would hope so,” Castiel replies, palms splayed flat against Dean’s back, gripping for purchase, “Who else would I be?” Dean thrusts his hips forward, catching Castiel at a new angle, and heat sparks up his spine, white hot.

Dean meets his gaze, eyes clouded with lust and dark with emotion.

“No, I mean, you’re _Cas_. Not whoever the angels say you are. You’re Cas, and you fucking belong to yourself,” He presses his mouth to Castiel’s neck, and then his lips, swipes his thumb across Castiel’s cheek, “And maybe me, a little,” he tacks on, a little less certainly, almost bashful.

Castiel’s metaphorical eyebrows rise, and he considers the idea. Dean’s had him from the getgo, really. There’s no denying that. Dean belonging to Castiel and Castiel belonging to Dean is definitely a step in learning to loosen his own leash, anyways. It’s a good, scary thing.

“That’s- yeah,” Castiel says, inadequately. “Likewise.”

That damn word again.

Seemingly out of nowhere, there’s lube in Dean’s hand. Isn’t that how it happens in porn? But then it doesn’t matter, because there’s lube on Dean’s fingers, which means they’re going somewhere no fingers have walked before. One small step for man, one finger sized hole for Dean.

There’s fingers tripping up his inner thigh, and Dean’s eyes are on his face, watching carefully for Castiel’s reaction.

“ _Go_ ,” Castiel says, half agitated and half enamoured with the way Dean’s doing exactly what he said he was going to do- take care of him.

And yep, there’s fingers right there, waiting for permission to enter, sir. Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean, clearly saying that if Dean throws him one more questioning look, he’s not above causing bodily harm.

Then there’s a finger entering him, and Castiel fucking gasps, because, well, shit, that’s a finger _in_ him. And not even his own, but someone else’s.

It’s kinda fucking weird, and _really_ fucking tight, but also really _fucking_ awesome.

He clenches his hands against Dean’s back, feels a tight, restricted groan pulled up and out of him, from somewhere around his toes.

“Okay,” he breathes, “Okay, holy- holy shit.”

Dean grins at him, wide.

“You good?”

In through his nose, out through his mouth. So much for being fucking composed during sex.

The first time Castiel had worked Dean open, way back when, Dean had laughed between hitched breaths, claimed it felt like there was a moth having a panic attack in his ass. Now, though, Castiel can play the game, can scissor his fingers deftly enough, a crook of the index here, a twist of the middle there, and can have Dean boneless (minus a very important one) in minutes, falling to pieces in the loveliest way possible- at Castiel’s doing.

Compared to Dean’s fingers, though, Castiel may as well have French fries attached to his hands. There’s some things you can learn only through experience, and Dean has most definitely learned some _things_. Subtle twists and a swipe or two, and Castiel’s already white knuckling it, biting down hard on his lip as Dean kisses him through it, mouth on Castiel’s forehead, cheeks, and chin.

“It’s intense, I know,” he says quietly, index unrelenting, hitting spots Castiel never knew he had, and finding new ones to boot. Castiel swallows hard, mouth falling open a little as Dean does some sort of swooping caress, and it’s like those switchboards in old movies, every single fucking button turning on one after the other, and systems are frying, people, get out get out get out move move _move_.

“I think my brain is shutting off,” Castiel finally manages to gasp, after gulping for copious amounts of air. Synapses are firing with nowhere to go, and a nuke or two may have launched when he wasn’t paying attention. Women and children first, he thinks wildly, because the boat, she’s going down.

Dean huffs laughter, kisses Castiel.

“That would be a first,” he says, and slips another finger in, and Castiel sees spots.

It would, actually. Castiel’s mind is rarely a quiet place to be, but right now, it’s mostly just echoing back his own breathy moans and keeping his basic functions running. There’s Dean’s fingers in him, and Dean’s mouth on his, and breath and skin and friction, but the thought process is chugging, grinding to a slow halt.

It’s bliss.

For this handful of moments, he doesn’t have to think in paragraphs or blocks of text or words without punctuation. There’s just overwhelming warmth spreading him out, limb from limb, and the voices in his head that all belong to him are shutting up, sitting down, and waiting for their fucking turn, for once.

When Dean asks if he’s good again, Castiel answers by matching Dean’s fingers stroke for stroke, thrusting down onto them with as much limited movement as he can get. There are little fairy lights in the corners of his eyes, and they’re winking at him, cheering him on (fuck yourself into oblivion, Castiel! The faeries command it!) and he’s just spouting bullshit, because his brain isn’t working, but it’s also working in the most delightful way possible. It’s cataloging the experience, the important things, like the way Dean’s stubble is rasping against his cheek, the slick of mingling sweat, the angles of bent fingers and the ripple of muscles in Dean’s shoulders.

Nope. Castiel hadn’t gotten the definition of vacuum packed right, before. Three fingers in now, and Dean may as well have stuck his fingers in quick dry concrete. Castiel has the quick, horrifying, impressed thought that women have _babies_ out of this orifice (kind of, not really, same general area, anyways), and Dean kisses through the pain, because yep, that’s pain, but the rough scrape-drag of pain that borders pleasure, dances a line finer than the one a professional coke addict would cut, hiss-pull-push-coarse-hoarse-scratch white hot _sensation_ , all curled in on the triplicate of extremities currently inside him.

Castiel thinks he might die, it’s a distinct possibility, and then the fingers are gone, hollowing out Castiel like those cheap chocolate bunnies that parents buy at Easter. He’s suddenly an outline, when before he was hard, furious coloring outside the lines.

He makes a noise that can’t be described on this plane of existence, an existential keening that probably registers as a prayer on some subconscious level, sounds more like begging on the level they’re currently occupying. Dean’s got way too much of a smirk on for this amount of distress and debauchery, and his freckles stand out, like a whole host of northern stars, lighting Castiel’s way to the orgasm of his life.

“Ready to go?” he asks, and if Castiel were more coherent right now, he would note the way Dean’s voice shakes, because keeping someone safe means holding them together when they’re falling to pieces- even if it’s in a good way.

“Yes, yeah, please,” Castiel has used the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ sparingly throughout his life, but somehow, they seem appropriate for the situation. Please, sir, may I have some more dick, thanks for the dick, etc.

And, here it comes, word choice most definitely deliberate. There’s the fervent sound of lube being applied, and then a pause so pregnant that Castiel’s pretty sure there’s a new Octomom in town, and then a bluntness at his entrance, and that’s Dean knocking to come in, because he’s polite like that, and please, Dean, come on in, no no, don’t bother to take your shoes off, yeah, we’re pretty liberal like that, would you like a drink, no, alright then can I take your coat, please make yourself comfortable.

He makes himself comfortable, alright.

He’s full, fuller than he ever thought possible. Warmer, too. Hands are in his hair and fingers are tracing the line of his lips and then there’s a hand on his dick as well, and did Dean always have three hands, or is Castiel’s sense of time just incredibly in flux at the moment? There’s whispered, revered words in his ear, and he doesn’t hear them so much as _feel_ them, and he’s fairly certain he’s never felt so much in his entire life, and damn, safety definitely has its perks. Maybe he’ll take a CPR lesson in the future.

That’s a lot of sensation, for sure, and Castiel is falling, feels like he hasn’t been doing anything but lately. And, as usual, Dean is going to catch him, because Dean keeps him safe, is literally in the process of keeping him safe right now. Castiel’s let go, given Dean the remote, and Dean hasn’t been a dick and changed channels from Castiel’s favorite show to something shitty like golf, but he’s just adjusted the volume a bit, turned up the brightness. It’s the same wavelength, shared interests, a mutual commitment to camaraderie.

They can do it. They’ve shifted the balance, turned the tables, and the world hasn’t followed suit, hasn’t fallen off its axis, because they’ll right themselves again, even out again eventually. It’s give and take, _giveandtake_ at the same time, no spaces, and god, Castiel hadn’t realized how lopsided he was before, like he was walking around with Canadian change in one pocket and American one dollar bills in another.

Dean’s hand is around Castiel’s dick, his strokes matching up with his thrusts, and Castiel knows it’s going to happen, feels the build up like the humidity before a storm, the heaviness in the air and the churning in his gut. He’s coiled like a spring, and not shitty a dollar store spring, but one that means business, a slinky on steroids.

He rests his forehead against Castiel’s, whispers, “you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” and that’s really all it ever took, after all. Castiel comes, the mother of all rushes, his vocal chords not knowing what to do, feels like he’s levitating off the bed, Exorcist style, and his heart beats out of his chest, Bugs Bunny style, and he loves Dean, Castiel style.

In the ensuing minutes, when the selfish post coital bliss takes hold of Castiel’s fogged out brain and makes him forget he’s somewhere that’s not a cloud, he feels a distant, close pressure at his side, the reason he’s here in the first place, and fingers are intertwined with his own fingers that aren’t fried potatoes anymore, and Dean is obviously pleased with their escapades, because he’s staring at Castiel like he’s seeing him anew, and maybe Dean looks a little different too, a little clearer, a little more beautiful.

Castiel takes a lungful of air, breathes deeply.

It smells like Dean, like him, like _them_ , and in a perfectly set up joke, it smells like teen spirit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. Sorry. Plot is incoming, I promise. No one should ever let me near a sex scene again.
> 
> Also, I never intended for bottom!Cas to happen, but there you go.


End file.
